The Night is Darkest Just Before the Dawn
by ekrolo2
Summary: A re-telling/refinement of Batman v Superman DOJ created with the intent of expanding on character motivations and cleaning up smaller issues with the film's story to fully realize the potential of Zack Snyder & Chris Terrio's original vision.
1. A Beautiful Lie

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."  
― **J.K. Rowling**

* * *

For Bruce Wayne, there was a time above. A time before. A time where perfect things existed, diamond absolutes. But all things eventually fall, and what falls, is fallen.

A cruel lesson taught to him by an equally cold and cruel world every night he closed his eyes and fell into the realm of dreams.

It was always the same. He walked next to a man whose grief was comparable to his own. The man placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder, an attempt at a comforting gesture but the 8-year-old Bruce felt nothing from it. He merely stared at the approaching crypt, a horrible sense of dread washing over him and the tiny structures black interior. Like an abyss ready to swallow him whole.

He dared not look away, however, for a much more frightening thing was behind him. A reality he didn't want to acknowledge, not then and hopefully not ever again.

But the world was hardly the only cruel thing to exist, the mind could match and even surpass it when it was so inclined.

The crypt morphed before his eyes, to a familiar sight which sent a cold chill down the boy's spine. It was the theater, the one he pleaded to go to for weeks and from it, Bruce saw himself and his family. The two Bruce's converged on one another, one happy and smiling, the other miserable beyond the description of words. He couldn't stomach the sight, the sight of himself smiling to his parents and his joy being responded to by them.

Just as they were about to meet, Bruce ran.

"Bruce!" The comforting man's voice called out to the boy as he ran past the mirages of that day. "Bruce! It's alright!"

The comforting man told him but Bruce couldn't believe that with a rush of speed he never knew he had, the boy ran on into the autumn forest which seemed to stretch out for eternity. He brushed past the trees littered with dead leaves, stepped over the stones protruding from the ground with all he could muster. Anything to get away from the past.

So he went on forever and ever, the forest never-ending, his legs never tiring. For a while, he thought he'd escaped, that the forest would mask his departure and keep the mirages away. But his newfound ally quickly betrayed him, as he went on, the trees took on the same shapes from before, his own and of Thomas and Martha Wayne from that night.

He tried to run harder but the world shifted around him, giving him a perpetual front row seat of sorts to the Crime Alley murder. He saw the three of them halt, their smiles vanishing as another, dark figure stopped ahead of them. A nearby branch came alive and morphed into the man's arm, and the gun in his hand.

Bruce tried to close his eyes but could not do so. He tried to look away but found his head stuck, he couldn't even cover his ears.

His father stepped forward, a tall and well-built man who frequently exercised. To both Bruce's, the one fleeing and the one covering behind him, he appeared like Goliath, an unstoppable giant who could defeat anyone. Thomas Wayne clenched his fist and rushed forward, for an instant, it looked as though he might succeed.

 **BANG!**

The sound echoed through Bruce's mind, sending him crashing towards the ground. For an instant, he considered running back only to find the forest vanish behind him in a shroud of cold, darkness. He looked back at the mirages and saw his father fall as well, his courage and strength doing little good against cold steel wielded by an equally cold man.

Despite a piece of himself telling him to simply let the encroaching shroud take him, Bruce picked himself up and quickly ran through the forest once again. For all the horror he knew he was going to see, the abyss seemed like an even worse place.

His mother was the next one to struggle, she was not a well built or strong woman, but she shared her husband's courage. She went at the man with the gun the instant he pointed it at Bruce, her hands struggling against his. Just as he did with his father, Bruce thought she might stand a chance. But as before, courage stands little chance against cold steel used by cruel men.

 **BANG!**

In their scuffle, the gun wielder pulled the trigger, and with it, a spray of blood burst from Martha Wayne's neck. She too crumbled to the ground with her son trying to help her stay up in vain. For an instant, Bruce even caught a glimpse of horror and shame at the gunman as he turned tail and ran in the opposite direction.

 **BANG!**

To his shock, Bruce heard the noise again but the gunman was gone. Once again, he stumbled towards the ground but it was not there to meet him this time. Instead, he found a gaping pit in the ground and released a terrified shriek as he fell down it. A shriek matching another from the second Bruce as he looked down at the bodies of his dead family. The mirages, for the most part, didn't follow him with the exception of his mother's shattered pearl necklace, each one hitting the walls of the pit as they fell with Bruce.

 **BANG!**

 **BANG!**

 **BANG!**

 **BANG!**

 **BANG!**

Each one struck a certain part of the pit before vanishing, each one's thud resounding in his mind like the gunfire did. Even as he shrieked and shrieked, he could not drown out the banging of the pearls. Without warning, the pit stopped, and Bruce smashed face first onto its rocky bottom. What seemed like the last pearl fell after him but when it too struck the ground, he did not hear a bang. Something much, much worse.

 **Martha...**

His father's dying words as he tried to save his wife, the more injured of the two, his natural inclination for saving other people over himself winning over even if it was damning him. Even in his last moments, Thomas Wayne was a doctor, a helper of others. Yet no one could help him when he needed it, not even his son.

As the pearl vanished, Bruce slowly raised his head and took a quick glance at his surroundings, his whole body ached and did not respond well to his commands. He noticed a crevice nearby, one large enough for him to slip through. The boy grabbed hold of the ground and clawed himself forward as he noticed something moving in the shadows.

Once he finally got close enough, he saw what that precisely was: bats.

An entire swarm of them covering the ceiling, slumbering and occasionally soaring across the sky to find something to eat or another spot to sleep in. Bruce found himself terrified and mesmerized by the tiny black creatures. For a moment, he even smiled at them and let out a small, barely audible laugh. Barely audible for a person, but more than enough to stir a creature as attuned as a bat.

In an instant, the previously black ceiling lit up with blood red eyes opening all over it, hundreds of them and all pointed precisely at Bruce. Suddenly, the boy wasn't smiling anymore. Disturbed from their slumber, the bats shrieked with an ear-bleeding noise and took off towards the exit of the cave, and right towards Bruce.

The boy tried to struggle against the swarm as they flew and clawed at him on their way out of the pit, he screamed, he yelled, he tried to swat them away like flies but it was no use, the swarm was endless and restless. It wasn't until he felt an odd sensation cover his whole person. Without warning, he slowly but surely found himself hovering off the ground.

He felt light as a feather, his fears, anxieties and tragedies all vanishing as the swarm flew around him, embracing him as one of them and helping him towards the bright ray of light outside. Bruce stopped struggling, instead, he let the swarm carry him upward, the sun shining down on him and giving him a renewed sense of hope that everything was going to be alright. He didn't need to worry anymore and he wouldn't have to blame himself.

A nice sentiment, and an even prettier lie.

* * *

Bruce woke slowly that morning, as he usually did whenever he dreamt this. He did not, however, expect to find himself slumped on the chair of his office at Wayne Industries HQ in Gotham City. He ran a hand through his black but graying hair and leaned forward checked the clock at his desk, seeing it was 7 in the morning.

For a moment, he tried to think of what could've possessed him to fall asleep here in all place. With a simple glance around his desk, the whiskey bottle and sleeping pills answered his unspoken question with their mere presence.

Not too long ago, he never would've taken either of those things, he made it a point to fake drinking alcohol, in particular, to simply throw people off. But as the years went by, Bruce one day simply realized he didn't have much reason to not actually drink. He had more reason to than most.

Instead of discarding the whiskey bottle and tidying himself up, Bruce merely opened it and poured what little was left inside into a nearby glass. Everyone thought he was a reckless drunkard anyway and have for many years, so why not add some authenticity to it?

He leaned back into his chair and turned on the TV, sipping the whiskey as he flipped through the various channels. Just before reaching a certain channel where reruns of the Grey Ghost played for young kids early on in the day, he saw a newsflash blazing in the upper and lower sections of the screen. A news flash which sent a chill down his spine.

 **MANKIND UNDER SIEGE! ALIENS ATTACK METROPOLIS!**

Jumping out of his seat, Bruce rushed to the window of his office and saw a massive, crab-like building hovering over Gotham's sister city of Metropolis across the pain. A ray of light burst from the bottom of it with a sort of rhythm to it, around the building, he noticed chunks of debris floating in a ring, completely defying the laws of gravity. Even from this distance, he could see buildings crumbling to pieces as the alien device kept firing off its laser.

Dropping his glass, Bruce rushed out of the office and narrowly avoided hitting his young secretary. "Do we have helicopters on the landing pad?"

"M-mister Wayne-" The 25-year-old blonde exclaimed as he grabbed her by the shoulders. "I don't-"

"Just tell me if we do!" He roared, shaking the already nervous woman. "Our people are stuck in Metropolis! We've got to tell them to get the hell out of there!"

"We-we tried," Lucy stammered with tears forming in her eyes. "But... something's jamming phone lines over there!"

"Shit," He muttered, letting go of Lucy and rushing towards the elevator. "Call services and tell them to send a helicopter over here this instant! If I don't get over there in the next 10 minutes I'm firing all of them? Am I understood?!"

"O-o of, course sir-"

Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Bruce took to the stairs as fast as he could. Even as a man entering his 40s and whose body suffered countless injuries and poisons, he reached the helipad in last than two minutes, climbing several stories without losing a step. Even the powerful wind from the top of Wayne Tower failed to slow him down as he rushed towards the landing helicopter and promptly sat in the co-pilot's seat.

"Get us over there," Bruce pointed in the direction of the alien craft laying waste to Metropolis. When he noticed the horrified look of the pilot he glared at him. "Do. It."

He commanded with a voice he usually left solely for his nightly escapades but it was no less effective with him out of the suit. Immediately, they took off in the direction of Metropolis. The warbling of the alien weapon growing louder and louder as he drew closer. He didn't know what good he could do in this situation, particularly without his equipment, but he sure as hell wasn't about to stand by the sidelines and leave his employees at Metropolis to face this alone. Luckily for them, Lucius Fox was there today, and he'd make sure they'd get out safely.

* * *

 **Yup, another Batman v Superman novelization! Unlike the one from Skychild01, which I highly recommend you check out, this will be more novel-y and will expand on existing scenes, change certain details of others while preserving most of the movie's plot. BvS is quite difficult to directly translate into a novel form without it becoming disjointed which is why Bruce's dream here is weirder.**

 **If I had to give a percentage of how closely I'll stick to the film, I'd say about 80-85. The only noticeable differences you'll find in this version are the beginning and some of the third act material. The second act will remain mostly the same, simply giving you more insight into the motivations of the characters as I interpret them.**

 **I will not make Superman randomly happier or refrain from having Batman slip into his darker tendencies. These were conscious decisions made by Terrio that I feel work in the context of the film. I will instead try to rationalize these decisions through said character insight.**

 **My primary objective isn't to re-write BvS into something else entirely, merely to re-tell the story we all know while expanding on characterization and motivations which a lot of people, myself not included, found lacking in the film.**


	2. Their War Here

The besieged city of Metropolis came into view as the Wayne Industries helicopter drew closer and closer. Most days, the distance between the two cities was negligible, only a harbor separated it from its sister city of Gotham.

This time, however, it felt like an eternity to Bruce Wayne. His eyes never left the craft orbiting in the middle of rapidly crumbling skyscrapers. His ears growing more and more attuned to the drum-like warbling sound it made with each pound of its laser beam.

 _A laser beam,_ He almost laughed at how casually he thought of it. _The whole world's gone to hell._

His attention got caught by the sudden passing of nearby military attack jets, the sound of their distinct engines roaring told him as much. Originally, Bruce planned to land closer to the craft where the Metropolis division of Wayne Industries was. As he observed the fighter jets, he realized how terrible of an idea that would be. Without warning, the jets lost control and were tossed through the air and into the city below by an invisible force surrounding the craft.

 _Gravity,_ Bruce all but gasped as he stared at the jets lose complete control. _That thing's manipulating gravity!_

Knowing the copter had a good chance of suffering the same fate, Bruce spotted a nearby landing pad on the pie. "Hey!" He called over to the pilot. "Land down there! It's too dangerous to go any closer to that... thing!"

"This whole deal is dangerous as shit anyway, boss!" The pilot replied fearfully but obeyed the order regardless. Bruce immediately went to the back of the copter and once it got close enough to the ground, he leaped out of the aircraft, rolling on his back and softening his fall considerably. Now, free of the noise of the copter, Bruce could clearly hear the warbling and pounding of the alien ship, along with the chunks of debris and who knows what else it smashed then raised then smashed back into the ground again.

For a moment, he put himself in the shoes of whatever poor soul was unfortunate enough to get grabbed in such a gravity field. Hurled dozens of feet into the air then sent back down at speeds no one could survive in, with no chance of rescue of survival... It chilled him to the bone in a way nothing had for five years.

No one could help them, not even Batman.

Clenching his fists, Bruce surveyed his surroundings and noticed a black van parked nearby. Running over to it, he smashed the driver's seat window with his elbow and quickly hotwired it. Pushing the vehicle to its limit, he drove past the swarm of other cars driving in the exact opposite direction of him along with any other, sane person on foot.

He pulled out his phone and quickly selected Lucius' number from his contacts. "Come on, come on, come on,..."

Without warning, one of the many jets which launched an assault on the alien craft re-appeared, spinning wildly through the air like a frisbee. It crashed through the side of a nearby skyscraper and burned as it came hurtling in the precise way of Bruce's car. Using his many years of experience driving the much more difficult Batmobile, Bruce expertly took a sharp turn to the left and narrowly avoided the burning jet smashing the streets behind him.

He glanced at his phone and saw the no response message. Were it not his only available phone, he'd have crushed it in the palm of his hand.

A part of him wondered just how needed was he in this situation? Lucius was no fool, far from it, with the exception of Alfred, Bruce trusted no one else half as much as he did Lucius. In many ways, Bruce envied the man. A person capable of recognizing the ugliness of the world around him but putting the focus solely on the positive aspects. For a time, Bruce thought he might become more like him, but Gotham isn't so kind as to reward that kind of thinking.

Still, after that fateful night in Crime Alley, Bruce became a man of action, someone who couldn't turn a blind eye to people in trouble. No matter how many times it nearly got him killed or injured or completely drained in his almost 20-year run as The Batman. If there was any way he could save his employees, the people he was responsible for, he'd do it, no matter how insignificant or crazy it may seem.

Exiting the alleyway, Bruce noticed dozens of cars parked in front of him, making it impossible for him to get any closer. He momentarily wondered if everyone had gone just as crazy as him until he noticed the ground wasn't shaking anymore. He parked at the end of this massive collection of vehicles and cautiously exited the van, his eyes never leaving the alien craft no longer firing its laser onto the ground anymore.

Another sound caught his and everyone else's attention, from the left of the craft, approached two ships, one alien and the other a Boeing C-17. The alien one fired on the C-17 before an eruption of red energy from its interior sent it crashing. The C-17 kept flying straight at the craft responsible for laying waste to Metropolis. Bruce wondered what kind of weapon they could possibly have to destroy it. It doesn't take long for him to see the answer.

The C-17 smashed into the craft with something that could only be called a black hole of some kind bursting from it at the center of the craft. A flux of energy erupted from the hole, unleashed onto the streets below, shattering windows, releasing a powerful gust of wind and causing all electronics to go haywire.

Bruce looked back to his phone and after hitting it with the palm of his hand twice tried calling again. To his relief, he heard a familiar, older voice answer him. "Bruce!"

"Lucius!" He proclaimed as a wonderful sense of relief came over him. Moving away from the crowd, Bruce turned the corner and saw the Wayne Industries building still standing and with a great many people pouring out. "Where are you? Is everyone okay?"

"I'm still up here!" Lucius told him with his usually joyful tone as if Martians didn't just try to annihilate them all. "We lost power all over the place, lots of folks got trapped and we've been trying to get them out! I don't intend to leave until I'm the last guy out, captains gotta keep an eye on his crew after all."

For the first time in a few days, Bruce genuinely laughed. "Aye, aye captain-" At the spot where the laser smashed into the ground, Bruce and everyone else suddenly heard a thunderous crash. Then, he spotted two figures soar across the sky, cracking it apart like thunder at the speech of their impossible speed, not aircraft of human or alien origin, but people. Tracking them with his eyes, Bruce's smile faltered as they smashed right into the middle of the Wayne Industries building.

"Bruce!" He heard Lucius call out to him. "What's happening? The whole place is shaking!"

"Lucius!" Bruce barked into his phone as he ran towards the building with all the speed he could muster. "They're in the building! Get the hell out of there-"

The same wave of red energy responsible for downing the alien craft exploded from the building's center, its power melting the steel and concrete like paper as it flailed wildly in every direction. Two floors above and two floors below were halfway destroyed by the time the beam stopped and when it did, the whole thing started to crumble.

The upper half of the building started to fall onto the street just as the same shapes burst from the center of it and continued their fight elsewhere. Bruce couldn't care enough to follow them anymore, once again, he found himself rushing towards the chaos whereas everyone else around him ran from it. Half a block away, the upper section of Wayne Industries Metropolis division finally fell and engulfed the entire street a thick cloud of gray ash.

"LUCIUS!" He roared as he ran into the cloud, just barely registering other, shocked people standing in it or slowly walking away from it. The cloud filled his lungs, setting them on fire, but Bruce didn't care, he pushed on towards the entrance as an all too familiar sense of helplessness washed over him. An emotion almost strong enough to overcome his blood-curdling anger, almost.

He approached the ruins of the fallen upper section, finally allowing himself to cough at the epicenter of the smoke cloud. He noticed many of his employees walk around like confused children, likely still in shock of narrowly being crushed by half of a skyscraper.

"H-help! H-h-help!" He heard a voice call out and ran towards it. The source was a young man, probably in his late 20s or early 30s lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. The cause is not hard to spot, he was pinned by a large pillar of metal crashing his legs from the knee down. "P-p-please...!"

"I'm here son!" Bruce called out to him, slipping into a choice of words that became an unintentional habit of his once he hit 40 years old. A word he used to address people only 10 years or less his juniors. He knelt next to the man, taking his hand and giving him the best reassuring smile he could given the situation. "You're going to be okay," He looked away from him momentarily. "Hey! Somebody help! We've got a hurt man here!"

"T-thanks... boss..." The man managed to smile, fighting back the tears of a little joy and more than likely agonizing pain from his ruined limbs. The moment he saw him, Bruce knew the man would likely never walk again. Something he doesn't need to hear right now.

"You're going to be okay," He checked the man's badge. "Wallace... Wally?"

"Y-yeah..." He nodded, a slight smile graced his features. "Nice meeting you... sir..."

"Could-" Bruce started then stopped as a terrible feeling of dread crept into his gut. "Do you know where Lucius Fox was when they... happened...?"

Wallace Kefner's smile faded, his eyes not quite meeting Bruce's. "He was... helping the janitor out of the elevator last I saw... Poor guy got trapped when the attack started and we lost power... It was a floor above the..."

Bruce's already call was quickly answered as employees and simple people from the street converged on them. Fighting back the realization that one of his few, honest to God friends was most assuredly dead and gone, another in a long list of such people, Bruce moved to the pillar pinning Wally's legs. Two men approached the injured Wayne Industries employee, taking him by the arms and lifting him somewhat off the ground.

"One... Two... Three!" Bruce commanded to three more men holding the pillar and in a swift motion, they lifted the large chunk of metal off Wally's legs and pulled him away from it just before it was once again dropped. He looked at his employee as he frantically tried to make his legs obey fruitlessly, the tears he fought back now poured down his face.

"My legs..." Wally sobbed. "I can't feel my legs..."

The sound of metal creaking caught Bruce's attention and he noticed a small girl, no more than 10-years old at most, gaze up at the half-destroyed Wayne Tower, seemingly oblivious to the large metal pillar about to fall on her. Springing into action and more determined not to let anyone die than he already was, Bruce plucked her off the ground just before the pillar could fall on her and gently put her back down.

"It's okay, you're okay," He told her with a warm smile and a gentle voice. "What are you doing here? Where are your parents?"

"I was..." She sobs outs. "I was visiting my mommy after school... She was..." She trailed off, looking up at the destroyed midsection of Wayne Tower and pointed at it. Bruce said no more, there was nothing to say.

Then he heard the sky crack again, and all his grief and guilt and regret took a back seat to his raw, primal anger. Pulling the girl close to him, Bruce looked up to find, no surprise, more destruction raining down on the people of Metropolis. Massive balls of fire blast through the atmosphere and smash into or right through several more buildings on their way down. Yet, even this far away, he spots the same two figures from before battling it out, returning their fight here, amongst us fragile human beings. Bringing more death and ruin to all of mankind, as if there wasn't enough of it already.

Then again, what does human life matter to unstoppable, alien Gods? After everything he'd seen today, Bruce knew the answer full well: nothing.

* * *

 **I wasn't expecting to have a second chapter done already but damn, I love this sequence from the movie so much I REALLY wanted to do it! Next time, we're moving to the Africa sequence! The timeline will be shorter here than in the film, about 8-10 months instead of nearly two years after the Black Zero Event. I'm also going to operate under the assumption Bruce retired as Batman after Jason was killed as its hard to believe he and Superman could operate so close to one another without Superman becoming aware of his activities.**

 **By having a shorter time skip and creating a few months of retraining for Bruce before he takes to the streets again just ahead of DOJ, this issue will be alleviated.**


	3. The Inciting Incident

**Nairomi, Africa**

 **9 Months After The Black Zero Event**

* * *

Most people would be terrified of being stuck in her shoes. Being in the middle of a war-torn, East African country where the scorching sun is just as liable to kill you as a bullet from one of a dozen of the warring factions vying for power. Driving in a car full of people who perpetuate the sorry state of the country through fear and horrid violence with a black hood over your head and a gun ready to blow your brains out at any moment. Venturing off into the heart of this hostile land to speak with a known and cruel murderer.

Most people would be terrified, most people never went there, but Lois Lane was not like most people.

As an army brat, traveling became a necessity for her, to not travel every so often was the same as being choked. The presence of guns didn't deter her either, her father made it a point to teach her how to use any number of them. Especially when she told her parents she wanted to become a reporter. A real one, not the kind who sit back surfing the information superhighway, but one ready to throw herself into the middle of a third world war to get to the truth.

A pursuit that made her quite a pain in the neck to those around her sometimes, even her boyfriend, the most powerful man in the world. Something she found irresistibly cute about him.

She couldn't tell how much time had passed since she, and her new photographer, Heron, were driving by that point. The black bags over their heads made it impossible to see anything of the outside world. The militiamen around her said nothing, neither did the surprising addition to her crew. When she arrived there, she expected to find Jimmy Olsen waiting for her, a young man of 26 years with brown hair, thick beard, and a chatty mouth. Something he quickly learned to keep shut whenever he was on assignment with her.

That's why she picked him. That, and he was a damn good photographer, managing to capture Superman in action at moments where most people would simply find him a blur of red and blue motion. She had no idea how good this Heron was, and for an interview with the infamous as General Amajagh, she wanted the best.

She felt the car slow down, the bumping growing weaker and weaker and the previously loud engine growing quieter. Now, she could hear people talk around her in a language she didn't understand, some older, some younger, some female. When it came to a screeching halt, the men in the car opened the doors with one of them grabbing her by the arm and pulling her out of the vehicle.

The harsh wind blasted her, helping to keep the scorching sun's heat at bay a little. She found it a refreshing after sitting in a cramped, un-air-conditioned car. The locals, however, as per the warning of an older man who gave her and Heron some Coca-Cola just ahead of the militias arrival, didn't agree. The powerful wind to them was an ill omen, the foretelling of a bloody sky.

Her escort barked at her and Heron again, pushing them down to their knees. The bags were pulled off, temporarily blinding the duo as the sun blasted them in the faces. The first thing Lois saw was a man in black combat gear standing a few feet ahead of her. In stark contrast to the more meager and obvious militia soldiers around him, he stood out thanks to his lighter skin color, lengthy yet slid back hair and more advanced looking weaponry and a detached demeanor in comparison to the less refined militia.

All around the place she spotted similarly dressed men standing guard, observing her and Heron intently, their hands never moving away from their rifles or pistols.

 _They're mercenaries,_ She immediately realized, given the diamond-rich areas controlled by General Amajagh and his men, she knew it would be a simple task for him to acquire guns for hire to bolster his ranks. Especially well equipped and professional mine like these. It was a standard practice all over Africa for militant leaders.

If Amajagh had control over the oil fields as well, he'd likely be running the country by now.

As if he staged it, the moment his name crossed her mind, the man bearing it came walking out of a nearby house, flanked by two soldiers armed with AK-47s. His demeanor stood out from everyone else's', the armed men around the place remained stiff and ready for action at any moment, the General, on the other hand, with his black sunglasses and sly smile, appeared completely casual in these tense surroundings.

For a moment, Lois felt their gazes met and with a smirk, he waved her over to the spot where he sat on a well-decorated chair. Cautiously, she approached him, taking her journal and notes out with slow, deliberate movements. Just by glancing at the men around her, she knew they didn't want her here and would look for any excuse to rid themselves of her should she present a problem.

She returned his smile and sat just a few feet away from him. "Um," She begins, glancing down at her journal and readying her pen for writing. Most reporters preferred to use voice recorders, but Lois' journal was to her what Clark's typewriter was to him: a little piece of journalistic past she couldn't quite get rid of. In spite of Perry's groaning protests.

"Do you consider yourself a terrorist, General?" She cut right to the chase. She expected to hear a passionate speech about how he fought against the corrupt, pro-American government and how he was shaping a better, more liberated future for his people. A recurring theme with him whenever he addressed either the public or the world.

Instead, he leaned forward and gave her something approximating a charming smile. "They did not tell me the interviewer was a lady."

"I'm not a lady, I'm a journalist." She smiled back and nodded her head, he nodded back with a look on his face saying 'fair enough'.

"What I am, Miss Lane," He spoke while taking his sunglasses off, his smile never faltering. "Is but a man with nothing but a love of his people."

"Is that how you're paying for these security contractors, General?" She inquired with a slight tone of accusation. Many other reporters, ones she trusted, told her of how he sentenced his enemies to work in the diamond mines until their bodies failed them. What he also did was sentence their families to the same fates. Revenge was a well known past time in these parts of the world, and by snuffing out the families of his enemies, he ensured no such retribution would come to him.

"It is no different than how you American's do things," He replies with an attempt at keeping his previously laid-back demeanor steady, but this time, Lois noticed how his smile didn't quite seem as genuine as a moment ago. "After all, is that not how you build and pay for the drones that fly over our heads? Attacking us from the sky like gods hurtling thunderbolts?"

"Oh no, you just exposed-" Behind her, Lois hears the blonde haired, surprise reporter Heron complain but doesn't turn around. Her focus was entirely on the general.

"The US government has, on multiple occasions, declared its neutrality in your civil war," She pointed out as if he wasn't aware of these declarations already. "Both in policy and principle. Are you saying these are nothing but lies?"

"More like pious American fiction, spread around as if it were the truth," He chuckled with a hint of resentment in his otherwise casual voice. Then, the features of his face shifted, taking on a more serious but not quite hostile visage. "The real truth of the matter, as I've learned it, is that men with power obey neither policy nor principle, Miss Lane. No one is different, no one is neutral," he leaned a bit closer, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "And no one... is innocent."

A year ago, Lois might've found herself agreeing with his statement, but as someone who lived with Superman, the most powerful man in the world, she knew it was not always this way. True, Clark did break many international laws and quite a few domestic ones to operate as he did, but he only ever did so with the purpose of helping people. To save them from bank robberies or floods or from frozen wastelands. Never to impose his will on anyone, never to consciously intimidate, and never as an excuse to murder someone.

Men with power did frequently act as Amajagh said, both as individuals and collectively, but Clark was proof that this was far from an absolute truth.

Before she could ask another question, she heard a loud crashing noise behind her and turned to find her photographer go pale. Next, to him, the man with the slid back hair and shades rummaged through the remains of Heron's destroyed camera and from it, picked up a small, blinking device. He turned to one of the older militia troopers standing nearby and coldly said: "It's the CIA, they're tracking us."

In an instant, screams, and yells of outrage burst out from the militia soldiers, the mercenaries kept their cool but Lois noticed them holding onto their weapons just a bit tighter. Amajagh leaped to his feet, taking a pistol from a nearby troopers chest holster. "You're CIA?"

Lois' attention returned to the general who know looked at her accusingly, his fingers removing the safety of his firearm. Immediately, she shook her head and took a step toward him. "No! No! We're just reporters!"

"You brought him here!" He said through gritted teeth, in an instant, Amajagh's arm shot up and she felt the cold barrel of the gun press against her forehead. She found herself at a loss for words at the quickly escalating situation. Then, Heron yelled at the General in the same tongue they spoke in.

Amajagh's attention turned to Heron as he, what Lois could understand given the pleading look on his face, tried to explain himself. One he noticed Amajagh drop his gun, Heron took a more determined tone with the militia leader, no doubt trying to strike a bargain with him if he was really CIA. For a moment, Lois thought that perhaps it would work, that he would let them go without incident. Then, Amajagh's pistol went off, and Heron's head exploded in a gory display of blood and ruined flesh.

As she stared in shock, Lois didn't register the two soldiers forcing her into Amajaghs' house until she was halfway there. She couldn't take her eyes off the dead photographer until Amajagh pushed her in and slammed the door behind him. By then, she regained somewhat from the ordeal and sat down where the militia leader gestured for her to sit.

"I-" She stammered out, nervously meeting the General's gaze. "I didn't know."

"Ignorance," He said, taking a step closer toward her. "Is not the same as innocence Miss Lane."

She looked away, feeling small and vulnerable in the dark lit, one-story house in the same presence as a man who sent women and children to die in the dark corridors of African diamond mines. Yet true fear didn't grip her, she knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her, but this time, in a situation as sensitive as this one, she hoped it wouldn't have to come to that still. He didn't need to find himself in the middle of a disaster such as this, people were hard enough on him already.

When more gunshots echoed through the house, Lois found herself grabbed from behind by Ajamagh who once again pressed the barrel of his pistol against the side of her face while his arms crossed over her chest. The gunfight, if she could call it that from the scant few seconds it occurred it ended just as suddenly as it started. What followed was something else assaulting her senses, not the sound of shots firing, but the smell of smoke... and a horrid stench following it.

Ajamagh dared not leave the house, instead, he walked both of them towards the corner of the room where he could keep an eye on the sole entrance to it. From the outside, she heard the sound of motorcycle engines revving before vanishing off into the distance. Clearly, this was not the CIA coming to her rescue or to avenge Heron or the government launching an assault of their own. In both cases, Ajamagh would've been dead by now.

She heard the sky crack, followed by two explosions going off in the air. In spite of knowing what his presence would cause here, at that moment, Lois couldn't bring herself to care too much about it. She didn't want the barrel of this gun pressing against her head anymore. With a loud crash through the ceiling on the opposite end of the room, he landed and instantly,.Amajagh held her closer than ever before at the sight of the world-famous man with the S adorned on his blue suit.

"Not one step closer freak!" Amajagh roared, the gun barrel practically drilling into Lois' head at this point. "Leave! Or she dies."

Clark looked at his gun, then to him. "You don't-"

"Silence!" He barked, stepping even further away from Clark now. "I'll not have you brainwash me with your... alien words!"

Falling silent, Clark looked disappointed at not being able to defuse the situation with words. As he stood there, Lois noticed him fiddling with something in his hand an instant before she felt something whizz across the air and with a loud thud, hit Ajamagh right in the face. The General's grip on her instantly disappeared and he fell backward, slamming into the wall with a pained moan.

Spinning around, she noticed a large, red mark on his forehead as he lay there, barely conscious. Next, to his face, she found a tiny pebble land on the ground, no bigger than a pinkie toenail. Despite the relief, she couldn't help but worry about him choosing to appear here. "You didn't have to-"

She could practically hear the smile in his voice as he walked up to her. "I did," He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear. "I know we agreed that I shouldn't get involved in things like this... But I couldn't just do nothing."

With a loud sigh, she let herself enjoy the feeling of his strong body around hers, momentarily forgetting about everything that just happened. She knew that with him here, nothing could possibly go wrong. Still, she knew him showing up here was sure to stir trouble back in the states, and the longer he stayed, the worse it would get.

"You've got to go," She advised, suddenly feeling extremely tired.

A moment of silence passed.

"Okay," He turned around to face her. "If anything else happens-"

"You'll be here," She grined momentarily, giving him a light peck on the mouth. "Now go, I doubt I'm the only one who needs rescuing today."

With some reluctance, he did as told and let go of her, flying back out through the opening of the ceiling he just came through and vanishing from the area with another crack of thunder. Outside, another ruckus broke out, this time of more people pleadingly entering into the facility mixed in with the sounds of American men approaching the area.

Cracking the door of the house open cautiously, her stomach almost turned as she found the source of the smoke and stench: a dozen freshly incinerated corpses littering the base at various places. She fough back the urge to vomit and pulled her scarf tightly around herself to fight back the smell. Exiting the building, she noticed many younger and older women entering the place, reaching out to the burned bodies of their husbands or sons or brothers.

In-between them, Lois spotted American troops, no doubt CIA, address the pleading and crying women, while a few others kept their weapons trained for any remaining hostiles. From the corner of her eye, Lois noticed her journal lying in the sand. Still fighting back the desire to puke, she knelt down and took the journal into her hands just as the troops finally reached her.

She didn't know who the men responsible for this massacre were or what they wanted, but with the bullet encased into her book, Lois knew she had a lead, her 15-years experience as a reporter told her as much. The truth was out there for the taking, and she would discover it. For the sake of these people here, and for Clark, who would soon no doubt feel the repercussions of being anywhere close to this place. Because of her.

* * *

 **So yeah, I made Superman not killing the general a lot more clear in this version. In the film, I can see a multitude of ways he could fly him through that without killing him but I felt a clearer way would've shut a lot of "Murderer of Steel!" people up. If you've read N52 Action Comics, specifically the first arc, Superman fires his miniaturized ship through Brainiac like a bullet. Same thing happens here, with Superman obviously just knocking the guy out of course :P**

 **Next time, our first glimpse of the Batman!**


	4. New Rules

**Same time as the Nairomi Incident**

 **1939 Harborway, Gotham City**

* * *

It was the night of the big game, the biggest one since the last time these teams clashed. Gotham and Metropolis were always competitive with one another, a rivalry spanning the ages. One was the shining beacon of the future and progress, where the best and brightest went to change the world. Everyone wanted to live there, and for the most part, people were happy there.

Its sister city, Gotham, was nothing like it.

Where Metropolis shined, Gotham was shrouded in shadows. Where Metropolis excelled, Gotham struggled to catch up. Where Metropolis was clean and safe even in its more impoverished areas, Gotham was at its absolute worst. Areas where men like rookie police officer George Keaton had to patrol, even when he'd rather just sit in the car with his partner Kyle and watch the Gotham Robins take on the Metropolis Eagles.

Gotham was passionate about its football, and when the announcer jokingly said things could get ugly tonight with the Robins getting smashed, George knew full well that football riots in this town were nothing to laugh at. A lot of people had a bad temper in Gotham, and a large portion of those people were football fans.

As their shrieking patrol car approached the sight of the reported screaming, however, George knew just by looking at the place he'd prefer a domestic disturbance. The house in question, an old, three-story mini-mansion would've been treated as an important piece of history. He could tell it was quite old given its chimney that looked straight out of Merry Poppins and small towers lining each corner of the roof.

"Christ," Kyle muttered as he eyed the building suspiciously. "Looks like a place a serial killer would use."

"Dispatch said there **was** screaming inside," George reminded him then instantly regretted it the second the words left his mouth. "How do you wanna do this?"

"Screw it," He unlocked his seat belt and exited the car with George following closely behind him. They reached the trunk of the car with Kyle pushing it open and taking out a pump action shotgun. "Here,"

George reluctantly took the rifle into his hand. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Kyle removed the safety of his gun. "I've never liked using it, and you're a worse shot than me," He smirked. "You could use the edge."

Shooting his partner a glare, George followed him into building with Kyle taking point, illuminating the outside with his flashlight. They approached the house slowly, cautiously, as if it were a giant monster ready to eat them both if they weren't careful enough. They quickly take notice of the door being kicked in and slow down further.

The house seemed even more decrepit from the inside, the floorboards were cracked or dented, wood rotted all over the place and the pain, what little was left of it, was barely clinging to the walls. More and more, it appeared like something straight out of a horror film, the only thing missing was a masked lunatic out to get them.

At that moment, Kyle pointed his light in the direction of something on the far side of the corridor. A small, peculiar looking object stabbed into the staircase leading to the upper levels of the house. They approach it, noticing how it stuck out from everything else there and all but gasped in shock as they finally recognized the shape of the object.

It was a metal bat symbol lodged in the wood. Not just any kind of bat, it was **exactly** like **his**.

Finding one of his "batarangs" wasn't uncommon in the city or in the police department. After operating for 15 years, night after night, the bladed weapons became something of a novelty exclusive to Gotham City. Particularly amongst officers who were always the first ones on the scene wherever the Batman appeared and fought.

But the last time that happened was time ago, over half a decade by this point. George was still in high school back then, during a time when a tense few weeks ruled the city. Gotham was never safe, but when one of the people actively protecting it started to become a potential risk to people, it only became worse. Almost every single day and night, reports of escalating violence from Batman passed through the information superhighway.

Like Gotham itself, Batman protected the city the only way you could: using fire with fire. In this case fire meaning fear and intimidation, to him, however, the targets were criminals. During those three weeks, an escalation was blatantly obvious to everyone. Every single night, dozens upon dozens of men and women ended up in hospitals, many shops used as fronts for criminal activity were shut down with ruthless efficiency. During that time, Batman's usual partner, Robin, was nowhere to be seen.

One such incident happened one winter afternoon when the sun was already down by 5 PM, George bared witness to the vigilante chasing a van full of perps at the precise moment he smashed into it. The car flipped several times in the air before crashing back down.

Everyone was watching, even if the teachers tried to make them stop, and everyone saw him pull what seemed like the leader out of the car and toss him onto the street. Whatever sense of secrecy he used to keep was gone, he pinned the screaming man to the ground with the bottom of his boot and what he did next sent a chill down George's entire person.

His car, seemingly driving itself, came up to the man's head and started to rev the tire over and over again as it pressed it against his entire head. All it would take was a simple push forward and the tire would've crushed his skull. The man's screams echoed throughout the area, almost everyone else was too shocked to say or do anything.

Except for Batman. With a roaring, inhuman voice he roared: "WHERE IS THE JOKER?!"

After that, all schools collectively decided to end a lot earlier to make sure everyone was at home before sundown. Under normal circumstances, George would've loved this, but after what he saw? He felt sick ever leaving his home.

Just when it seemed like this escalation of Batman related violence wouldn't stop, it finally did one night when police Commissioner James Gordon found the Joker and his girlfriend, Harley, lying on the streets of the building at midnight. The she-witch was unconscious but the clown? The clown was in the sorriest state anyone ever saw him in, his arms and legs were in tatters, several deep scars ran all over his body and, most fittingly, almost all of his teeth were clearly punched out of his skull.

Most disturbing of all, though, he was crying. The scene haunted George for a long time, he knew it would the second he opened the link to a mobile cam recording of the event but he had to see it anyway. Ever since then, the Joker has remained in Arkham Asylum without a peep from him.

Then again, there wasn't a peep heard from Batman either. Night after night, as he always did, Jim Gordon tried to contact his unofficial ally but after 8 months, everyone knew the truth: the Batman was gone. Until tonight, if the lodged batarang meant what George suspected it did. Part of him hoped he was back, what little order existed before evaporated quickly with no one to keep the criminal element in check.

The so-called freaks stopped attacking with the same force as before, but this did little to compensate for the regular joes who could blow your brains out in the middle of the street at any time of day or night. The other part, however, remembered the car incident well, if the Batman was still as angry and brutal as he used to be, how would the bad guys respond to it?

Suddenly, the two hear something coming from the basement, the door of which the batarang was lodged close to as if to catch their attention. Exchanging glances, they nodded at one another and George cautiously opened the door with the barrel of his rifle, noticing the myriad of rattling chains previously responsible for keeping it closed now cling loosely from the hinges.

Mentally cursing the creaking floorboards, the two of them are surprised to find some electricity in the lowest level of the building judging by the dim lights hanging from the ceiling. In stark contrast to the rest of the house, the basement appeared more like a medieval dungeon, seemingly stretching on for infinity with metal cages housing what appeared to be dozens upon dozens of young, Asian women.

All of them were in their early to mid-20s, all of them visibly frightened, filthy and eyeing the police officers as if they were going to hurt them.

"It's okay," George spoke softly, lowering his rifle and gesturing towards himself then Kyle standing behind him. "We're here to help."

One of the women closest to the oddly open cage door spoke with a mix of fear and awe in her voice. Unfortunately, neither he nor Kyle could understand here. George reached out to the cage and managed to budge it open when the same woman grabbed the bars and smashed it shut again.

The two officers exchanged puzzled looks when the woman spoke again in her incomprehensible language, she pointed her index finger upward to emphasize her point but it was still lost on them. "I-I don't understand-"

Then, everyone all but jumped out of their skin when a loud thud followed by the loud, blood-curdling scream of a man from above suddenly echoed throughout the home from the uppermost floor. Steeling themselves, George turned to his partner and nodded at him, telling him without speaking that he would check the cause of the noise while Kyle tried to either call for backup or convince the women to leave.

Keeping his rifle trained at all times, George cautiously moves up toward the source of the noise, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness of the place. A small compensation for the lack of a flashlight but it was better than nothing. Cursing the rooting floorboards again upon reaching the upper staircase, George took special care to not step too hard on the wood, it was liable to break if he did so. Making the creaking all the worse.

As he neared the uppermost floor, George held his gun closer still as he could hear a faint gasping sound. Had he just arrived without hearing the initial scream, he would've thought a wounded animal was the source given its depth and hoarseness. Reaching the top of the staircase, he spotted another, dim light emanates from a room to his left.

The room in question was once an office judging by a small, broken desk lying near the doorway, meaning there were no other entries or exits from it, save a hole in the ceiling just ahead of the door. The growling rasps became clearer and louder as the source came into focus: a chained up, bleeding man howling in pain. George examined the room for signs of the one responsible for tying him down but found nothing.

Until he spotted something resembling a black hand just barely visible on the edge of the lightened up portion of the room. He took a step closer and narrowed his eyes at the patch of shadows before him. In it, he saw something blink an instant before a black-clad creature started scurrying across the ceiling.

George opened fire immediately, blasting several holes in the ceiling of the room but never managing to hit his target. It wasn't until his final shot almost blasted Kyle's head off that he snapped out of his momentary trance.

"Christ! Watch where you're firing that thing!" Kyle roared, wincing from the pain of his ringing ears from the blast.

"I saw him," George muttered, still eyeing the hole in which he crawled into. "I mean, I saw him a few years back but never this close-"

"Holy shit..." Kyle whispered as he stared at the tied up man. George spun around to see why and only then noticed the freshly burned, bat-shaped mark near the man's heart. "He... branded him..."

* * *

 **5 Hours Later, The Batcave**

Four men. Mere days after returning to active duty for his most important mission he will ever undertake. The mission he left retirement for. He managed to track down four associates of a man who could lead him to the key to accomplishing said mission. Yet none of them knew anything of value, nothing good enough to even somewhat satiate him. Something the drive back to the cave didn't help.

He whizzed through the massive tunnel built underneath the expansive grounds of his family's estate in the latest iteration of the Batmobile until finally slowing down then stopping in the middle of his base of operations.

While stepping out of the freshly renewed vehicle, now armed with a mini-gun turret at the front, much to Alfred's chagrin, he momentarily looked around the place and almost forgot about his fruitless endeavors of the evening. Almost 20 years ago, this was but a simple cave, now? Now it was a complex full of military grade equipment, computers with vast troves of information and stands for his, and his former partners suits over the years.

One glance at a particular suit memorialized in the cave immediately soured his mood even more.

"Productive evening, Master Bruce?" He spun around to find the oldest of his partners and remaining friends, Alfred Pennyworth fiddle around with another iteration of the cowl. One capable of taking small arms fire even at point blank ranges as per his request.

"No," Bruce told him as he slid the cowl off his head and casually placed it on a nearby table whilst he made a beeline for a computer terminal. Behind him, he heard Alfred fiddle with the voice modulator of the newer cowl as he sometimes did to lighten the mood. Bruce was not amused as he sat down at the terminal and checked through the databank.

"All of these men were too low level, they knew nothing about White Portuguese," With a few button presses, he entered his database of known criminals and brought up another man he suspected Lex Luthor used for his less than legal activities. "The next man on the list is Anatoli Knyazev, former KGB officer and now full-time human trafficker and gun launderer. He usually operates outside the port of Gotham, bringing in people or guns into the city."

Alfred approached him with a tray of food and orange juice but Bruce felt like consuming neither. "And you're sure this... White Portuguese exists? He could if it is a he, could be a mere phantasm."

"One that wants to bring a dirty bomb into Gotham?" Bruce replied flatly without turning to face Alfred. He didn't tell his friend why he really wanted Knyazev or why he had a sudden interest in what Lex Luthor was doing. He knew Alfred wouldn't approve.

"Ah," Alfred spoke after a moment of silence. "High stakes run then."

It wasn't until Alfred pulled out one of his branding bats and placed it before him that he finally looked at his butler. "New rules?" He replied casually though Bruce could already detect a hint of disapproval in it.

"We're criminals, Alfred," He took the branding bat into his hand before tossing it away, speaking casually as if it were nothing out of the ordinary for him. "We've always been criminals, nothing's changed."

"Oh yes it has, sir," Alfred told him forebodingly, a leftover from his brief career in theater. "Everything's changed."

He reached out towards the nearby keyboard and with a few button presses evaporated the multiple photographs of Anatoli Kynazev, replacing them with camera footage of one Superman as he battled General Zod across Metropolis. Footage captured from street camera's used by law enforcement or by people simply filming the ordeal.

Bruce instantly clenched the arms of his chair.

"Men fall from the sky," Alfred continued. "The gods hurl lightning bolts, innocents die," He turned to face Bruce who could not quite meet his gaze. "That's how it starts sir. The fever, the rage, the feeling of helplessness that turns good men... cruel."

"I know that feeling Alfred," Bruce replied with more determination in his voice, trying his best to keep the rage at bay. "It's why I do what I do. You know that."

"I do sir," He confirmed with a nod. "But it's also put you on the edge of the line perpetually. A line you've never crossed. But a man can only walk the line so much before he cannot resist anymore. And needless cruelty only makes it that much harder to control oneself. Despite what you are to criminals out there, Master Bruce, you are still just human, and people have limitations."

With that final piece of advice, Alfred walked off. As Bruce watched him leave, he was glad he didn't tell Alfred what he was really after. He was right about things being different, but they were different for the worse. An alien God capable of killing them all soared across the sky with nothing to control or stop him when he did, not for a little while longer anyway.

Once he got his hands on the rock, the tide would turn in favor of mankind once more. And then, whatever limitations keeping him from saving the world will be gone. The so-called "Superman" would fall.

* * *

 **Next time, we move back to Lois and Clark for some sexy time ;)**


	5. Back Home

**5 Days After The Nairobi Incident**

 **Metropolis**

* * *

"Justice has turned, or should I perhaps say, returned to darkness across the harbor in Gotham with the brutal return of the vigilante known as the Batman. Rumors of his resurgence became reality when police discovered a sex trafficker bound, tortured and branded by the Gotham Bat. The man is but the first one four men so far to receive the Bat-brand. The latest victim, an accused child predator, was assaulted in prison this morning, receiving life-threatening injuries and is currently in critical condition. Many people say this incident foreshadows more for anyone bearing the Bat-brand, as only the most heinous of criminals have received it thus far-"

Hearing the bus reach its station a block away from his and Lois' apartment even through the headphones, Clark removed them and left his seat. Seeing an old woman carrying almost a dozen bags of groceries come in, he helped her put all of them onto his former seat before exiting the vehicle.

Over the past few days, Clark found his mind wander on two subjects: Batman's return and the effect of Africa on Lois. The former struck a particular chord with him. Ever since he joined the Planet with a few strings pulled from Lois, Clark heard of the blight in Gotham and championed as many news articles as possible about the impoverished there. Not everyone lived in a city as well off as Metropolis and Clark found it disturbing how the citizens of one city could so easily write off the misfortune of their neighbors.

Perry White, his boss, was one of those men, but not by nature. Clark knew he was a man stuck between a rock and a hard place. He knew Perry was a man of integrity, Lois proved this with her story of how Perry respected Lois' choice to keep his existence a secret. He had the story of the century, something which could've put him in the history books and chose not to pursue it. The same thing Lois did, and he'll always respect them for it.

But Perry's understanding was being stretched these days. The actual paper of the Daily Planet was failing, newspapers in general were and like many outlets, the Planet was suffering for it. Forcing Perry to pursue any lead that could help bolster their revenue. To say he was displeased about the Amajagh interview going south would be an understatement. If Lois had gotten hurt or worse, Clark figured Perry literally would've ripped the roof off the place with enough power to make Superman himself look like an ant by comparison.

With the Batman back, Clark hoped he could draw more attention back to the issues facing Gotham's poorer districts. He hoped that with such brutality happening there, he could finally move away from sports and sensationalist articles to help other people outside the suit.

Hopefully, the Batman would recognize what his latest tactic was doing to people and stop it before someone got killed. As a man who routinely broke the law and understood the situation in Gotham, he understood the virtues of having someone to help or save you when the regular law couldn't. He could even, begrudgingly, accept some of the things necessary to operate like that in Gotham.

What he wouldn't accept was brutality for the sake of itself with no regard for other people's live. If this branding was a potential sign of things to come, Clark suspected he and the Batman may run into one another in the coming days.

Finally reaching the entrance to their apartment building, Clark let thoughts about bats and Gotham fade away, instead, he tried to bring his focus back closer to home, to Lois.

Though she said otherwise and tried to act as if nothing happened, Clark sensed that was far from the truth. It wasn't that she was still shocked by how things went down or how closely she came to death, this wasn't the first time she was in a situation like that. He suspected Lois secretly got a kick out of it. Every time they spoke, he could feel her hold something back from him, not because she was too afraid to say it, but she consciously didn't want him to know something.

He hoped that with some lily's, her favorite flowers and a romantic dinner on their final day off from work would help her relax and open up to him.

Opening the door to their humble abode, Clark noticed she wasn't sitting in the living room, sipping wine as she had been for the past few days since coming back home. He heard the faint dripping of water in the bathroom and made is way there, finding her lying in the tub with her hair tied back and smiling at him.

"Hey," She repositioned herself, leaning forward against the side of the tub with a smile.

"Hey," He smiled back. "I was gonna cook some of my mom's special meatloaf for dinner tonight. Y'know, to surprise you."

"Meatloaf for dinner?" She laughed softly, raising an eyebrow. "That a tradition in Kansas?"

"Sort of," He chuckled back, taking a few steps toward her. "My mom's mom told her to save the recipe for her daughter one day when mom didn't have one-"

"She made a girl out of you," Lois laughed again, almost perfectly echoing a bit from her favorite animated movie, Mulan. Then, her smile faded and the concern on her face was instantly obvious to him. "They held hearings about what happened this yesterday."

He heard about that too, though he hadn't managed to catch up on what precisely happened as he was primarily interested in the goings on in Gotham. Part of him didn't want to hear the accusations that were surely being thrown his way.

"They were saying-"

"I can guess what they were saying," Clark interjected softly, earning a faintly disapproving look from her. "But I don't care, you could have been shot or blown up or burned alive. Think about what could've happened."

He wasn't exaggerating the part about her being blown up either. Ever since they got to together and he realized the kind of woman Lois was, Clark made it a point to have an ear out for her. Frequently she got involved in all sorts of risky situations in faraway places and he didn't want her occasional recklessness to get her killed. It never got quite that far as Lois usually succeeded in getting out of dodge before things got dicey or could get herself out of it just fine.

Not in Nairobi though. After saving a Japanese crew of astronauts from a faulty rocket ship retry into the planet's atmosphere, Clark noticed her heart beating faster and faster, as he came closer and closer to Africa, he could hear the screaming, the firefights, and a US drone preparing to bomb her and an entire city full of innocent people to get to one man.

He couldn't let them do it. To her, or to the innocent women and children in the village.

"Well think about what did happen," She countered, becoming more and more visibly distressed by the whole ordeal in these past few minutes than at any other point thus far.

Her sentence confirmed his earlier suspicions. "I didn't kill those men Lois," He softly tells her, putting the various bags of groceries onto the stand next to the tub. "If that's what they're saying about me, I don't need to hear it."

"I know you don't want to hear it," He could hear the sympathy in her voice. She knew full well of how much controversy surrounded his first few months after Metropolis, how the relentless accusations for how the whole world's problems were his fault affected him. But, up until Nairobi, this quieted down considerably, even if some of the other things people did around him didn't. "And I'm grateful that you saved me, saved all of those people. I just want people to understand what really happened."

"And they will," He reassured her. "It's like you always say Lo, the truth comes out eventually. People are going to find out what really happened in Africa and when they do, everything will be okay."

He noticed her stiffen at this instead of calming down, she was definitely hiding something from him but he decided that now was not the time to push her. Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder, massaging it softly. This managed to calm her down a bit.

"I just- I just don't know if it's possible," She all but whispered out.

"Don't know if what's possible?"

She looked him right in the eye with a kind of sadness in her eyes he never wanted to see. "For you to be who you really are... and love me."

"Lois," He smirked, meeting her gaze with a warm tone to his voice. "This is who I really am. Sure I can bench press a building or outrun a bullet train," His warm smile turned into more of a sly one. "Can cook a mean meatloaf,"

He instantly felt better hearing her chuckle genuinely. "But this I'm just a regular old gal from Kansas!"

This time, she truly laughed before giving him a quick peck on the lips. "And what a strong gal you are," She patted him on the chest, the sound reverberating in the room with the same strength as a drum player hitting his instrument with all his strength.

"How about I show you how strong I am?" He whispered into her air and leaped into the tub, submerging his legs up to their knees in water.

"Clark!" Lois laughed, laying down properly into the tube now. "You're going to flood the apartment."

"That's one advantage of having Superman as your boyfriend, Lo," He cockily told her while removing his shirt. "I clean up pretty fast."

* * *

 **30 minutes later**

He stood at the kitchen counter, enjoying the smell of fresh eggs cooking on the frying pan in his hand. After having a little fun with Lois, he left her to get cleaned up properly while he made some breakfast for them. Despite his great strength and speed, Clark enjoyed the mundane aspects of life. Particularly cooking which relied less on raw strength or speed as it did on carefully precision and timing.

That and the smells of meals being made slowly and deliberately gave him a special kind of pleasure and joy most people couldn't comprehend.

Seeing that the eggs were fine for a bit, Clark decided to find the music channels to listen while he cooked when he stopped at MN8, Metropolis' primary new station give an interview with Kahina Ziri in Washington DC. The woman from the hearings concerning the incident in Nairobi.

"It is time for the world to hear the other side of the story!" Kahina spoke with conviction at the reporter. "They say this Superman is a hero, okay, but to who?"

"If Superman were here right now," The blonde reported spoke next. "What would you say to him?"

Clark walked forward, momentarily forgetting about the eggs.

"To tell him my family too had dreams," She spoke with tears forming in her eyes. "To look him in his eye, and tell him which lives count, and which ones do not."

That was a question he asked himself often when he learned the full implications of his power. As his mother taught him, Clark learned to tune out his enhanced hearing to protect himself from bombarding his senses.

But he also knew the price of this comfort, for every minute he could have his own peace, someone, somewhere, needed his help. Help to save their cat out of a tree, help their relative from a burning building, he even heard some call him to help them in their divorce settlements. But Clark knew he couldn't save everyone, there was a reason he wasn't Superman every day, he'd go insane from trying to solve all the worlds problems.

A well-adjusted Superman available sometimes was better than an always present one crumbling in on himself.

He and Lois even made it a point for him to not involve himself in delicate matters such as toppling warlords in Africa. Anything that was a political quagmire waiting to happen, politics were beyond him and were never, ever a black or white thing.

But this act was one primarily lead by his desire to save Lois, the woman he loved. What about other loved women he could save? Are they worthless because they aren't Lois? In spite of saying he didn't care what they were saying, Clark understood Kahina Ziri's position.

She wasn't some army general declaring how Superman should come under the heel of the government or someone using incident this for their own political agenda. She was just a woman with her own, human side to the story. Upon the completion of the interview, he noticed that she lived in Gotham City and would be returning to it soon.

Clark made it a point to visit her tomorrow, Superman couldn't save her loved ones. Clark Kent? He could help her story come further into the light. It was the least he could do.

* * *

 **I was going to add another part with Clark visiting the actress' home in Gotham and meeting the cool guy with the bat logo carved into his lottery ticket but I've decided to save that for later. Next time, Finch visits Lex!**


	6. Judging Character

The change of venue was refreshing June thought as she drove in a private limo owned by LexCorp towards its headquarters in Metropolis.

Ever since the Black Zero Event, everyone in Washington was scrambling or fighting or both amongst one another with what to do about the recent, and destructive discovery of alien life on Earth. A discovery which saw the appropriately named City of Tomorrow nearly raised to the ground.

Alien technology lied scattered everywhere, in the Indian Ocean, in the heart of Metropolis, in Smallville Kansas and no one knew what to make of it. Or the sole survivor of the species responsible for bringing this technology to Earth and using to wage war on mankind: Superman.

June always considered herself a good judge of character, it's what allowed her to become a senator, what allowed her to know friend from foe and to see what people were capable of. For that reason, she was able to form the Superman Committee successfully but also through great pains. She knew that if he wanted to, Superman could've simply joined the other Kryptonian's and already rendered humanity extinct. Instead, he chose his adopted world over his people, even if it left him the sole member of said species.

It was her belief in Superman's allegiance that allowed her to rally other, similarly minded individuals in Congress to form this committee. To represent the US government in potential talks with the man and hopefully, begin a dialogue with him. There was a reason he told former General and current Secretary of Defense, Calvin Swanwick, that the government would never control him on more than one occasion.

She understood this quite well, she lived in that vipers next and knew full well many would gleefully exploit an obedient Superman. But that did not mean he should be allowed to simply do as he pleases either, especially in political quagmires such as Nairobi, the first real test of her committee. Democracy was founded on mutual cooperation and discussion, she hoped that, when she returned to Washington after here stay here, she could invite Superman so that his side of the story could be told.

For the moment, she had a different mission: what to do about the crashed Kryptonian vessel and Lex Luthor's mysterious proposal.

She knew Luthor had great pull in Congress, his multitude of prolific military contracts with them made him a favorite amongst the types of politicians who were former soldiers in their youth. If he wanted to, he could've gotten authorization, particularly since his company worked tirelessly to rebuild what was destroyed by the Kryptonian World Engine.

But the committee concerning Superman related matters, even as young as it was, found itself in the center of attention these days. Lex probably found it fitting to approach its leader for help in all things Kryptonian. Not a far-fetched thing to assume if what he heard about the young man was accurate.

The limo reached their destination, a modern, five-story building in every sense of the word. All around her, she found the newest pieces of technology everywhere built with that white, iPhone-esque sheen that made something as simple as a surveillance camera covering the entrance appear like something out of a sci-fi movie.

The red X adorning the front of the building stood out thanks to this, letting everyone know they were entering a state of the art facility and who controlled it without even the full name present. Given how she couldn't quite get her eyes off of it, June had to admit that Lex knew how to market himself well.

As the car door opened, June thanked the drive with a smile and noticed an Asian woman, no more than 30 years old at most with small, black hair and large glasses on her face approached her.

"Senator Finch," She smiled, reaching out to the older woman. "I'm Mercy Graves, Mister Luthor's personal assistant. I've been sent to bring you to him."

"Is Mister Luthor busy?" June raised her eyebrow, wondering if she was intruding on an important business deal due to a scheduling issue. Mercy merely laughed and waved it off.

"No, no!" She gestured for June to follow her inside. "Mister Luthor is just taking playing some basketball with his employees, something he does every day. He says it helps him relax and get to know the people working under him."

"Not a policy most CEO's share," June points out, liking what she's hearing from the man so far.

"Mister Luthor isn't like most CEOs, something you'll notice when you see him."

They walked the rest of the way in silence as June examined her surroundings. Much of the interior had that same, polished sheen to it, further reinforcing the notion of this being a state of the art workplace of the future. Fitting for Metropolis' nickname. She caught glimpses of laboratory after laboratory, some working with chemicals, others with more practical technologies, but all of it looking quite highly advanced.

As they entered what was a sort of massive lobby, the building took on a more relaxed, college-like appearance. All around her, June noticed dozens upon dozens of young people either walk around, never take their eyes off their phones or talk to one another on couch cushions. A skylight allowed the bright sun from outside to shine down on all of them. They even had an indoor basketball court to blow off some steam during lunch.

It was then that June caught her first glimpse of the man currently owning this facility, the man who, after inheriting it from his very successful predecessor and father, made LexCorp the premier technology firm in Metropolis.

He wasn't psychically impressive by any means, with a scrawny build quite apparent by how his t-shirt and jeans sort of hung off his body. He had long, messy brown hair swishing across the air every time he leaped. Yet, if rumors were true, he was one of the most brilliant young minds produced in the past fifty years.

"Mister Luthor!" Mercy shouted from the edge of the basketball court, waving in the air and catching his attention. Upon seeing her, he smiled and with a wave of his own hand, bid a quick farewell to his employees before strolling over towards them.

"Whew!" He exhaled, taking a moment to catch his breath. "These guys play rough," He spoke with a squeaky but not unfriendly voice to Mercy before noticing June. "Oh! I'm sorry! Where are my manners!"

June returned his smile and shook his hand. "It's no trouble Mister Luthor, I'm not too big on formalities."

"Please, please," He waved a dismissive hand. "Mister Luthor was my father, the Lex in front of the Corp," He waved his hands in the air as he pronounced his companies name for extra emphasis. "For some reason, old ladies found it funny writing checks for him, go figure."

He had no lack of energy June noticed, with a quick tongue and an apparent fondness for listening to himself speak. Not an uncommon trait for people in his position by any means. She and Mercy followed him as towards a mobile staircase while one of his employees handed him the white jacket of a tuxedo.

"Dad was born in East Germany," Lex told her as they walked into a cordoned off hallway blocked with many, thick security doors and over twice as many security personnel guarding it. "Every day he had to eat stale crackers, and that's if he was lucky. On every other Saturday, he had to get up, march in a big parade and wave flags for tyrants to survive."

They passed through a final layer of security doors with Lex grabbing onto a nearby bouncy ball. As the talked, June caught the distinct hint of resentment in his voice whenever he spoke of his father. On the outside, he was a famed entrepreneur and legendary inventor, but that was the outside. People always wear masks when they're outside, even if they don't want to admit it.

"That's why I think it was providence that his son would end up with this," He bounced the ball as he walked, gesturing towards an isolated, transparent container as something rose from the stand holding it up. June drew her attention off of Lex and leaned towards the case, seeing a small, green rock inside the size and shape of an arrowhead. "One of my rebuild Metropolis crews found it awhile back, near the spot where the World Engine bounded onto our little blue planet."

"What does a rock have to do with homeland security?" She asked, leaning back and looking at Lex who casually leaned on the case like a high schooler leaned on his desk when he was bored.

He shook his head. "Homeland security? No, no, no, no, no ma'am! This is a matter of planetary security!"

They locked gazes for a moment, with Lex looking sympathetically at her as the words left his mouth. Yet his eyes betrayed something, something cold and less altruistic than he was touting. He was the first to break eye contact, looking towards a man in a lab coat standing in the room, waiting for them.

"The fragment is a radioactive Xeno mineral," The scientist spoke, getting June's attention away from Lex. "We suspected it might've had bio-interactions, thus we took the sample to Amriid for testing. The same place where the body of the Kryptonian decedent, General Zod, is currently held in."

He tapped on a nearby terminal, revealing footage of the test. As she stared at the oddly fresh corpse of the man, June felt it odd to see one of the most powerful beings ever seen on Earth, the one almost responsible for destroying them all look so... vacant, just like any other person does when they die.

"Upon exposing his flesh to the mineral, this happened," With a few more button presses, June witnessed footage of a hand, holding the mineral like a sort of tattoo needle near the body of Zod. When it did, it did not break like almost everything else did against his flesh like bullets or missiles. Remarkably, the rock-cut right through him like butter, more effective in doing so than any other weapon fired at the Kryptonian invaders.

"Profound biodegradation, decaying Kryptonian cells," The scientist continued, pressing the button again to reveal a closer look at the process. The rock cut through Zod's body even on a microscopic level, severing his very cells to such a degree.

"We knew immediately that the mineral could be weaponized," Lex spoke with a somewhat unsettling amount of enthusiasm for a subject such as weaponization. "If a large enough sample was found. We couldn't find any here in Metropolis, however," He all but danced as his enthusiasm grew more and more apparent. "Amongst the fishes, we nabbed a whale!"

The scientist pressed on the keyboard again, revealing a gargantuan slab of the mineral lying on a sandy beach.

"Lying at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, Emerald City" Lex exhaled, smirking at June before taking one last glance at the mineral. "Beautiful..."

June said nothing, opting to let him speak but she found herself unable to smirk back. "Now," He looked back at her. "Rocky is radioactive but what he needs from you is an import license!"

"And why would we want to weaponize this material?" She asked, already forming a picture in her head at where he was going with this. She wasn't sure about the man himself yet, but she was sure she didn't like what he had in mind for this rock.

"As a deterrent, as a silver bullet to keep in reserve to use against the Kryptonians so the day does not come, madam, that your children have to wave flowers at tyrants of a different sort, but tyrants anyway." The speed of his talking intensified, as did a sort of resentment she spotted whenever he brought up his father.

"Last I looked, the only one of those flying around was Superman," June replied.

"Ha-ha, oh yes, Superman," He tried to keep that same friendly smile on his face, not very well as he all but spat the man's name as if it were an insult, the features of his face hardened as he did so. "But uhh, there are more of them."

"You're saying you believe in the metahuman thesis?" She asked once again as if she didn't already know the answer. Since Superman appeared almost a year ago, reports of other, special individuals like him began to surface around the world. None of them were confirmed thus far, June herself thought it wasn't impossible. If aliens existed enough to invade them, other extraordinary individuals like them couldn't be so easily dismissed.

"More likely than not," Lex continued, now with a hint of irritation as he spoke of these people. "More likely than not, these extraordinary individuals form the basis of our myths! Gods among men! Existing right here on our little blue planet!"

He waved the blue ball in front of her, she suspected he planned this little speech. He slammed it on the case with a loud thud.

"You don't have to use a silver bullet," He continued, his voice softening considerably and a sort of genuine spark entering his eyes. "But if you forge one, then we won't have to depend on the kindness of monsters." He concluded in an accent eerily similar to her own.

June knew men of great intellect, her own brother was one, but she also knew that such individuals could put more of a focus on playing with or inventing new toys. Pushing the boundaries of science. Other men abused such individuals for personal power or gain. With Lex? She knew something felt off about him, but she needed to be sure.

"Say," She began. "Aren't you hosting an event soon?"

"Of course!" He replied bouncing the ball like a hyperactive child. "A fundraiser for the Metropolis library, happening at one my own, personal residence in a couple of days!"

"If it's alright with you, I'd like to come to that party," She gave him her best fake smile. "This is a very delicate, potentially earth-shattering discovery and I'd like some time to consider all my options. Decisions like these can't be taken lightly, I'm sure you understand!"

"Say no more madam," He nodded. "I'll make sure you get your invitation before you even get back to your hotel suite!"

And thus, they left the room with Lex continuing on about his father and the foundations he set for his son. June listened intently, making sure to take in every word, every way it was spoken, every gesture to get a full picture of the man. Lex said he caught a whale when he discovered his Emerald City, June suspected that she'd was wrestling with a pig disguised as a noble horse.

* * *

 **Phew! Almost doubted if I could finish this one on time! I removed the Barrow's character as I found it odd how he could give Lex access to everything but the import license, I've decided to move June's meeting with Lex to the night of the party where Lex has the Trinity meet one another for convenience sake. Expect some more scenes to get move around for the sake of pacing and just making this a less disjointed story.**

 **Some might see June as figuring out Lex as a bit too good to be true but rewatching the exchange, given their facial expressions, there are quite a few times where Lex shows his true colors with his face and tone. As does June's suspicion of him.**


	7. The Reporter

As he approached Kahina Ziri's tenement building, Clark thought it a perfect encapsulation of Gotham Cities major issues.

The four-story structure had seen better days. The pavement and street in front of it were cracked, causing every vehicle passing nearby to bump uncomfortably passing through as Clark experienced upon exiting the bus. Whatever brown paint used to give the place a better appearance outside was now gone, revealing the cracks between orange, pressed together bricks composing it.

A couple of nearby dumpsters were filled to the brim with trash bags, both inside and out, creating a foul stench that Clark had to put some effort into suppressing. On a nearby street corner, he noticed several sickly looking men ask for money, no doubt for drugs, while several others passed him by, eyeing the nearby police car with intense suspicion.

With the exception of himself and the aforementioned men in the police car, everyone's clothes looked old, worn out and not at all good enough for the approaching winter. A time notoriously vicious in Gotham, resulting in the deaths of dozens of people. Even ones with roofs over their heads due to a lack of heating. Clark wondered if this place was like that too.

It wasn't all doom and gloom, though. Clark smiled at the sight of children playing in the small yard outside the buildings, enjoyed the scent of a fresh pie being made out of an open window. He even noticed a couple of homeless men help another one out with his bags. It was good to know that even in harsh circumstances, people could stay good to one another.

Her apartment was on the ground floor of the building, merely a few steps away from the entrance to the whole place. He knocked on it gently a few times but got no answer. Noticing an older, African American woman and her son cleaning laundry out in the hallway, Kahina's neighbors.

"Excuse me, miss?" He called out to the woman, taking out the newspaper headlining Kahina Ziri's testimony before the Superman committee. "If it's not too much trouble, could you tell me if miss Ziri came home today?"

"She was supposed to be but I haven't seen or heard from me," The woman told with a bit of concern in her voice.

"What did she do officer?"

Clark turned his attention to an older, male voice from the opposite end of the hallway. He noticed an older man with graying hair and a blind left eye leaning against the open doorway to his house, fiddling with a multitude of lottery tickets in his gloved hands. As Clark approached him, he noticed a German Shepherd lying next to him, wagging its tail at him as he approached the dog's owner.

"Oh I'm not a cop," Clark chuckled, kneeling down to the pet the dog. "I'm a reporter. I was hoping to do an interview with miss Ziri, she mentioned coming back home today so I figured..."

"She hasn't been back," The old man shook his head. "If she's smart, she got as much cash as she could from doing all those interviews and got out of this town. And you should get out too," He looked Clark right in the eye, revealing a few golden teeth with his smirk. "Before dark, unless you want to run into him."

"Don't listen to that nonsense!" The woman from earlier yells, glaring at the older man who merely shook his head at her outburst. Clearly, this was not the first time the two went at it about the subject. "Only people scared of him are people who got a reason to be."

Clark's smile faded as he glanced at the two of them and noticed how they avoided saying his name, only addressing him as he or him. And with a sort of fearful respect at that.

"Scared of who?"

"Scared of who? Scared of who?!" The older man burst out laughing, no doubt wondering how Clark was a reporter without knowing about the recent events in Gotham. He did, but sometimes, according to Lois, you could get a lot more information by pretending you knew less than you actually did.

The older man took out a coin with heads on both sides, rubbing it against his last lottery ticket. "You must be new on the job or out of town. Cause with the new kind of mean in him," He finished scratching the ticket, holding up for Clark to see. "You'd know he's angry and he's hunting."

It was, as Clark expected, in the shape of a Bat.

* * *

 **2 Hours Later, The Daily Planet**

Though he failed to interview Kahina Ziri, Clark found something equally valuable for two jobs simultaneously. The first and the job he told Perry he was going to Gotham for over the phone this morning was about the recent loss of the Gotham Rogues against the Metropolis Eagles. Simply recording people's thoughts and impressions on the matter, pretty standard stuff for him.

More importantly, though, he learned a great deal more about the Batman's recent effect on the crime wave of Gotham. Just speaking to the old man, whose connections were quite impressive across the city, Clark learned how people perceived his return. Some calling it a blessing, others a curse, some not caring one way or another and a few calling out for him to go after their unfair bosses next.

Fear remained a constant factor throughout every conversation. A respectful fear, and admiring sort of fear but more often than not, a paranoid kind. The kind people who'd have no reason to have still did. Even if they knew for a fact they did nothing wrong and had no reason to expect a visit from the Batman.

His branding still terrified this group, however. They saw it as an escalation in his tactics, an escalation that could go anywhere if enough time passed. One story, in particular, the one he intended on using to sell the article to Perry, could serve as a potential glimpse into where things in Gotham could lead to.

"Hold the elevator!" Clark heard someone yell at him and frowned upon seeing a disheveled Jimmy Olsen ran across the lobby of the Planet and enter the elevator as if his life depended on it. "

Thanks... Clark..."

"You okay Jimmy?" He asked, observing the man catch his breath.

"I... overslept... today..." Jimmy explained between gasps for air. "I tried this new... exercise thing too... get myself into shape... I woke up at 5 AM... then fell asleep again."

The went past a few floors of the building in relative silence as Jimmy finally managed to catch his breaStraighteningting his wrinkled shirt out to make himself as presentable as possible. He let out one final, louder sigh before awkwardly asking Clark:

"How's Lois doing?"

Clark noticed how nervous he seemed, the quiver in his voice, the stiffness of his shoulders and the loud thumping of his heart. Knowing what was really bothering him, he decided, to be frank with his co-worker.

"You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened," He told him honestly, speaking for himself and Lois.

He let out an awkward chuckle.

"Am I that obvious?" He asked and promptly cut Clark off just as he was about the answer. "Don't answer that!"

"It's the truth," He gave Jimmy a reassuring smirk. "It's not your fault the CIA blocked your passport and sent an agent instead of you. If anything, you should be pressing charges against them for breaching your rights."

"It's just..." The photographer exhaled with a somber tone to his voice. "If I was there, I could've seen what happened y'know? I could've gotten some photos to show people the truth! Who really killed all those people! Instead, the guy they sent got shot too and all we've got is a bunch of people saying this or that happened without any evidence."

Clark could guess the answer from his explanation, but a part of him wanted to hear him say it anyway.

"You don't think Superman did it?"

Jimmy laughed, an honest laugh without any guilt or awkwardness in it. "Superman doesn't have it in him to do that."

Suddenly, a lump formed in Clark's throat as he remembered the one time he, Superman, did in fact, do it.

"He killed Zod, didn't he?"

"And he's never done it again," Jimmy replied, Clark's argument not weakening his conviction. "Believe me, as a guy who keeps track of Superman better than his own laundry, if he ever killed someone for real, I'd know. I mean, this is a guy who carried a bank robber to the hospital after one of his partners shot him to get more money!"

He turned to look at Clark. "I don't even think he wanted to kill Zod, he probably just couldn't see any other way to stop him. In Nairobi though? Letting Amajagh live but roasting his conscripted soldiers? Doesn't make any sense. He didn't do it."

Upon reaching the uppermost floor of the planet, Clark mentally thanked his co-worker for the vote of confidence and understanding. In a world where a great many people misinterpreted him and tried to paint him as something he wasn't, especially these days, Clark found it immensely gratifying to see Jimmy wasn't one of them.

"Kent! My office! Now!" Startled back into reality, Clark saw Perry call out to him from his office. Fixing his glasses, Clark rushed towards his boss, narrowly hitting a great many of his other co-workers and earning either scowls or curses sent his way as they too rushed throughout the place.

As he entered the office, Clark went to speak but was cut off when Perry handed him a sheet of paper off his desk.

"Whats this?" Clark asked, raising an eyebrow as he took the paper. "Fundraiser for the Metropolis Library? Tomorrow night?"

"Someone specifically asked for you to cover it," Perry sat back into his chair. "Don't ask me why but they did, it's gonna be a big event with plenty of fat cats so make sure you wear something nice."

"Sure..." Clark said slowly, folding the paper and putting it into his pocket. "I got those recordings you asked for, for the football game."

"Glad to hear it!" Perry said with a sly smile. "Nothing sells quite like making people laugh, and around here? Metropolis folk love to laugh at Gothamites whenever their team bites the dust."

Clark couldn't confirm or deny this, he wasn't much of a sports fan.

"And I got something else," He began, sitting down on the chair opposite of Perry's. "I think it's a good story and no one else is talking about it yet." A fact which Clark found somewhat disturbing, despite it concerning Gotham.

Perry's smile faded, replaced by a stern look he always put on whenever Clark brought him one of his surprise stories.

"If it's another piece about the downtrodden of Gotham, spare me, Kent, it's not happening."

"Even if it's tied to Batman?" Clark asked, genuinely thinking it would make a difference, judging by the lack of change in Perry's voice or expression, he was wrong.

"Batman's been around for almost 20 years, Kent," Perry looked away from Clark, looking at another paper on his desk. "Hell, one of my first big breaks was doing a piece on him back in my younger days. But now? Doing a story about Batman putting some fool in a body cast is breaking news the same way doing a report on Gotham's crime wave or water being wet is breaking news: not at all."

Times like these, Clark had to remind himself that Perry didn't back down on the scoop of the century when Lois practically handed it to him on a silver platter.

"Just because it won't set the world on fire doesn't make it worthless," Clark replied with a tone he usually saved for when he was in the suit. A firm but not patronizing one. "The Batman smashed into a man's house and branded him right in front of his family! In front of his kids Perry!"

His boss looked away from the paper, for an instant, Clark saw him visibly soften up and knew he hit a nerve, those were the moments he knew why he and Lois didn't oust him. But it only lasted for a moment, he looked away again.

"Still nothing out of the ordinary, he's done plenty worse. So, unless you've know the Batman's secret identity or have a picture of him in a bikini, I'm not going for it."

"That's it then?" Clark asked, letting a bit of frustration seep into his voice. "Poor people don't buy papers so it's not worth talking about their problems?"

Perry chuckled, momentarily glancing back at Clark. "People don't buy papers period Kent, in this world of click bait online bullshit, you've got to catch people's attention with other things. If this was happening in any other city, you might have something, but it's Gotham, everyone's written that place off a long time ago."

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad there if people didn't write it off," Clark counter-argued. "If we just let bad things become normal to us, what does that make us?"

"The American conscience died with Robert, Martin, and John, Kent," Perry told him, emphasizing every name, starring Clark right in the eye to see if he was going to back down. Clark couldn't accept that train of thought, he wouldn't, so he didn't even flinch under his boss' intimidating gaze.

Perry was the first to break eye contact. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

"Look, I get it," He began, his voice softening up considerably. "You're young, you're just starting out, thinking you can right all the wrongs of the world. I get it, I've been there, all of us start there."

He sighed, momentarily looking bitter and sad that he was even saying this.

"But you can't," He told him frankly, the disappointment gone in an instant. "The world's a cruel place, you've got to prioritize compromise and when you do, you'll see that fighting back is just going to tear you down. You'll learn that you've just got to accept some things and adapt to them."

Clark was suddenly reminded of Zod as Perry spoke of this. How he was caught in a potentially infinite battle with the man, the man whose future he had to destroy to secure his adoptive worlds. He remembered the feeling of Zod's bones break in his hands, how he heard it snap and watched the life drain out of his eyes. With the exception of him failing to save his father, Jonathan Kent, Clark never felt more miserable.

If that's what it felt like to let the world break you down, to drag you down into the dirt to play by its rules, Clark wanted nothing to do with it.

Before he could continue, the door to Perry's office opened and to his surprise, he found Lois enter with the same smile she always had when she found a lead to a juicy story.

"Hi sweetie," She gave the puzzled looking Clark a quick peck on the cheek before turning her full attention to Perry. She reached into her handbag, pulling out a thin, plastic bag with a bullet inside. "My guys at the crime lab have never seen anything like it."

Perry took the bag, glancing at the bullet then giving it back to Lois.

"It's called a bullet," He began, trying to discern what the point of this was. "You shoot people with it."

"Recovered from the scene of the firefight in the desert," She told Perry with a pleased smile on her face, Clark's mouth hung open at this news as he realized at that moment what she was hiding from him these past few days. "Not sold anywhere, commercially or on the black market!"

"So?"

"So?" Lois repeated, a slight frown forming on her face. "So who gave prototype military rounds to Tuareg fighters in the Sahara Desert?"

"You're the reporter, you tell me," Perry replied, leaning back in his chair and failing to hide a hint of intrigue in his voice.

"When I was at the base, there were hired guns there, mercenaries who were working for Ajamagh," She put the bullet away. "But when I came back out, they were gone! None of the bodies there belonged to them and I know for a fact none of them were from Nairobi!"

"You think these guys killed Ajamagh's men?" Perry inquired, his previous skepticism now completely gone. "You think the government or CIA put them there?"

"I do," She nodded though Clark could tell by a faint alteration in her heartbeat that she was lying. She knew the CIA fired a predator drone missile at the village, why would they do that if they already had a squad men on the ground? Why burn corpses if they intend to blow them up anyway? No, he knew where Lois was going with this: she was trying to prove Superman's innocence. She thought someone was trying to set him up.

A nice sentiment, one Clark appreciated, but honestly, Clark found the idea of someone creating such an elaborate scheme where innocent people died just to get at him immensely disturbing. He secretly hoped this wasn't the case.

"All I need is a few days in DC, I've got an inside man there who can help me if I pull this off Perry, we could be sitting on the biggest news story of the year!"

She knew Perry was desperate for a hit story to help bolster the Planet's performance, and this, unlike many other stories he was having them pursue, was on a legitimate topic. A hot topic at the moment, controversy always sold well.

"Fine," He agreed. "Coach. No extra legroom."

Lois beamed at him and headed back towards her desk.

"Economy plus?" She asked just before exiting the office.

"COACH!" He roared, earning a glare from Lois who promptly left the office. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

Clark snapped back to reality once more and found himself at a loss for words. Perry laughed. "Yeah, when Lois gets an idea in her head, it takes something else to make her back down."

"Believe me, I know," He decided to drop the matter of the Batman story, instead he picked up his things and made a beeline for Lois who was busy taking things from her desk. He leaned against the small wall covering most of the desk and asked her gently. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She froze for a moment, then looked at him with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I just..." She trailed off, not quite looking him in the eye. "I need to find out what happened there, Clark. Not just for... you know... But for myself and for everyone who died there!"

"I know you do," Clark began, putting his hands on her arms. "It's just... this could be really dangerous."

She smirked, closing the distance between them and stopped just before their lips met. "When has that ever stopped me?"

He couldn't help it, despite not feeling quite comfortable with her hiding this from him and the fear he felt over what exactly happened in Nairobi, Clark smirked back and gave her a gentle but long kiss. "Just... be safe... okay?" He whispered to her as they back away from one another a few inches.

"Aren't I always?" She quipped back and, upon noticing Perry glare at her from the other side of the floor, Clark could practically hear him fuming, promptly walked off. Clark and Lois winked at one another one last time as she entered the elevator, the last they would see of one another for a while.

Sighing, Clark walked away from Lois' desk and went to his own too, reluctantly, write the sports article, he would try to convince Perry later. Just as he activated his computer and prepared to begin working when he suddenly heard Jimmy's heartbeat and footsteps rush to the center of the room.

"Boss! He called out to Perry, earning puzzled looks from everyone present.

"Olsen?" Perry exited his office, shooting the photographer a look that could kill. "You mind telling what the hell you're doing screaming in here?"

Instead of explaining, Jimmy took the remote of the nearby television screen and quickly scrolled through the various channels until he landed on his desired one. "That!"

Clark looked up and instantly froze along with everyone else. Recently, the Metropolis rebuilding crews, financed and lead by Lex Luthor finished a memorial park created to honor those who died in the Kryptonian attack. A multi-year job finished in less than one, as Lex Luthor put it, it was done so to show the world how quickly man could recover from anything while honoring their fallen.

He didn't like the statue they made of him, how it knelt down with one hand reaching out to people with the other reaching into the sky. It looked too much like some messianic, delusional version of himself. Like he was guiding everyone else as if they were children around like he knew better than the rest of them just by virtue of being Superman.

But now? As he stared at the statue, Clark's eyes were focused on the red spray paint on his suits symbol. Eerily resembling blood, the words read FALSE GOD

* * *

 **Damn! This was a llloooonnggg one! But I managed to get quite a bit of movie and original content in there! Next issue, we'll be moving back to Batman for some pre-party and party shenanigans. I'll be skipping over the short fight club segment though, nothing really relevant goes down there that I can't simply have Bruce exposit through dialogue.**


	8. The Value of Restraint

He found himself in a familiar place.

A large, open field filled with crumbling, autumn leaves crashing on the ground from the blow of a chilling wind. Behind him, an imposing but destroyed structure stood out. The ruins of an old house for a once proud family. He vaguely remembered it in its glory days as he glanced at it on the way to his destination. A crypt.

He walked toward it with a slow and deliberate pace, not that he could go any faster. Time was... off. Everything moved slowly for some reason he couldn't understand or force himself to make understand. His senses were heightened. He could hear the rustling of the trees as the wind came at them. The crunching of the fallen leaves as he stepped on them. The flapping of his coat from the gust of wind.

A haunting warbling sound appeared out of nowhere, causing a chill to run down his back. He ignored it, finding himself fixated on the small entrance of the mausoleum.

He brushed past massive, overgrown weeds as he stared at the gaping, black void from within the structure. A strong yet non-paralyzing fear gripped him as he neared the structure, his heartbeat thudding with the strength of cannon fire. Just as he thought a familiar blackness would overcome him, nothing happened.

With a relaxing but incomplete sense of ease, he walked down the stone pathways of the mausoleum, the flowers in his right hand brushing past the names of men and women from across the centuries. Now laid to rest.

Upon reaching the bottom, his eyes fixed to the names of his dead loved ones, the previous heads of his house. Try as he might, however, he could not remember their faces, were it not for their names carved into the stone tombs, he couldn't remember what they were even called. This feeling of amnesia, of a lack of knowledge of his own history and past, saddens him considerably.

Placing the flowers into a nearby pot, he reached out the stone walls covering their bodies and brushed his hand past their inscribed names. Thomas and Martha. He wanted to desperately remember their faces, their laughs, their moments with him, but once again, he could remember nothing.

A bright light suddenly illuminated the underground burial place from a nearby window. He turned around to find something drawn on the window: a mural.

On it, he saw a man clad in blue and red robes with beautiful white wings springing from his back and the sun shining brightly behind him. The man stood above someone, or rather, something else. His foot pressed against the neck of a horned, black devil on the ground, one spewing fire from his mouth and reaching out to the man as he prepared to run him through with a golden, shining spear.

The warbling sound returned, sending another chill down his spine and almost blocking out the faint dripping noise nearby. When he turned to find the cause of it, he noticed something black, like dried blood, ooze from the crevice of the Martha tomb. Perplexed by this, he reached out to the ooze and brushed it aside with his fingers, he stared at it, trying to figure out what it was.

A loud crack over the inscribed name tore his gaze away from the ooze at the precise moment the tomb broke into pieces. Frozen in fear, stood face to face with a massive, black skinned, white-eyed and sharp-toothed monster. A hideous combination of a man and a bat. The creature roared, its horrifying shriek piercing reverberating in his skull as at grabbed him by the shoulders.

With a snarl, the monster opened its mouth, revealing an endless row of knife-sized teeth and with another shriek, it bit into him. The last thing he felt before waking up, was that distinct and haunting warbling noise.

* * *

Bruce practically leaped out his bed, gasping for air as he frantically checked his neck, so vivid was the dream he sat there for a moment, observing his surroundings and his person to check if it really happened. When he did, he didn't feel overly relieved as a terrible headache appeared with the fading of his brief adrenaline rush.

A soft moan from behind caught his attention and upon turning around, he found a young woman sleeping in his bed. Try as he might, he couldn't remember her name or her voice at all, he barely remembered bringing her there at all. Glancing over at his nightstand, he found the answer: an empty bottle of wine.

In the years of his retirement when he had little reason to take care of his personal health anymore, Alfred joked with a clear sign of disappointment and disapproval, that the next generation of Wayne's would inherit an empty wine cellar. Not that there was going to be the next generation, Bruce made his stance on that clear a long, long time ago much to Alfred's chagrin.

When he began re-training, it hadn't even occurred to him to even take a sip of actual alcohol. Now? As he stared at the bottle, he wanted nothing more than to have a nice, long drink to make his headache go away. A longing he didn't feel until he heard about one of his branded criminals end up in intensive care. Had he grown so soft over the years? So weak that news of a criminal, a sexual predator no less, being attacked because of him was so earth-shattering? Bruce had personally done much worse to much less deserving men.

Still, the longing was strong and thinking about the hospitalized man, despite how much he tried not to care, still bothered him. Like an inch of a hard to reach place he couldn't quite get rid of, he walked to the kitchen area, fully aware a bottle of whiskey was there waiting for him. As long as he destroyed the evidence, something else he knew how to do, before Alfred arrived, a little alcohol in the morning wouldn't hurt.

* * *

As he anticipated, Alfred arrived right around 9 o'clock in the morning, just before the girl from last night, Natasha left with one of his private limos instructed to get her anywhere. Bruce felt bad and awkward for simply using her like that. Despite his playboy persona, he only ever really slept with women he had longer-term intentions with, those he didn't he kissed at promised to call back but rarely ever did.

Then again, he didn't drink alcohol before either. Just ginger ale, begrudgingly he had to somewhat concede Alfred's point from a few nights ago, some things had in fact changed.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred said absent-mindedly, with a clear edge to his voice. Clearly, waking up this early in the morning in his age of nearly 60 was starting to get to him.

"Morning, Alfred," Bruce replied, carrying two cups of freshly made coffee, one for himself and the other for his assistant.

"Thank you, sir," He said, sipping the hot liquid. Between them was a laptop positioned to face Bruce. "Judging by this gesture, am I right in assuming your hunt last night was successful?"

"It was," Bruce confirmed, finishing the last of his coffee and promptly turning his attention to the laptop. "I managed to hack Knyazev's phone during the match and I discovered something very interesting." Interesting to Alfred, but not to him, he knew Knyazev's usual, highest paying client well.

"These records," He turned the laptop around to give Alfred a look. "Show calls coming to and from Knyazev and the personal residence of one Alexander Luthor. All of them show him speaking to the White Portuguese."

"That's odd," Alfred mused, leaning back in his chair. "Luthor is just as wealthy, if not more so, than you. What could he possibly want with a dirty bomb in Gotham City?"

"It might not be Lex himself," Bruce pointed out, playing the fool to throw Alfred off. "Could be some kind of corporate sabotage. Someone trying to use Lex Corp resources to tarnish the companies reputation. Maybe even set Lex up to fall for something he didn't do. It wouldn't be the first time we saw something like that."

"Yes," Alfred admitted, giving Bruce a knowing look. "The Powers certainly gave that a good try with Bruce Wayne's company that one time."

"Regardless of who it is, I'll need to put a leash on Lex' house," Bruce turned the laptop off. "And I'm gonna need the suit."

Alfred said nothing for a moment, looking Bruce over with a few quick glances before reaching into his briefcase. "The Bat interrogated six people and came away with nothing. This time, it was Bruce Wayne who managed to find a link to this White Portuguese."

"Bruce Wayne can't break into Lex Luthor's house," Bruce countered with a smirk when Alfred shoved a paper across the small table towards him.

"Bruce Wayne won't have to, he's been invited," Alfred tapped the paper in question, revealing that it was indeed an invitation to Luthor's house tonight. For a fundraiser made to help out the library of Metropolis. "Given the hundreds of people and the particularly tightened security to compensate for it, I imagine you will find it a great deal easier not taking your work clothes with you tonight."

"Wouldn't be the first time I snuck into a party in the suit, Alfred," Bruce countered, not feeling particularly keen on playing the idiot, billionaire playboy angle tonight. Though he suspected Lex from the start, he had to play like he wasn't even a factor, to throw off Alfred and to be sure of who exactly had their eye on the rock. Now? He had proof and found himself feeling impatient. He couldn't afford to let this potential lead to the weapon slip through his fingers.

"Perhaps not," Alfred admitted with a nod. "But you also did it a great many times without the suit, and with even greater success," He gave Bruce a firm look in the eye. "Restraint, Master Bruce, can sometimes yield better results than pure force."

Though he didn't say it, Alfred's intention was clear: he was worried he was getting needlessly cruel. Using sledgehammers where Alfred thought a scalpel would work considerably more. Truth be told, he wanted to go after Knyazev in the suit last night as well, it was an only bare necessity that he didn't. The others were mere low-level grunts, men Knyazev could easily replace if they went away. Men who're criminal activity hardly stretched to the Russian exclusively.

But if the Bat went after Knyazev himself? That would catch Lex' attention and potentially warn him. Hence why he, reluctantly, went as Bruce Wayne into that underground cage fighting circuit. To keep Batman's recent actions as him simply going after crooks and not solely men tied to Lex.

Regardless of how you choose to go there tonight," Alfred said as he got off the chair. "I hope you keep this in mind."

"Where are you going?" Bruce asked, raising his eyebrow at the man.

"For a walk," He stated, opening the door. "The fresh air around the lake is simply sublime this morning, the mist will do wonders for my headache."

And with that, he left, letting his last piece of advice linger with Bruce in his solitude. Despite a strong, primal urge telling him to break into the place whatever way gets him to the rock fastest, the more logical part of himself, as if fueled by Alfred's advice, wins out.

With a sigh, he realizes doing this Alfred's way will be more beneficial. He realizes there's no guarantee Luthor even has the rock yet or that he couldn't have some way to simply delete the data should Batman stir up trouble for him. Depriving him of any leads and putting him back to square one. The place will surely have extra security along with hundreds of people, innocent people who have nothing to do with this, all over the place along with the staff to accommodate their needs. Too many people to comfortably sneak past, and if he was spotted, some of them might get hurt in the ensuing chaos.

And then there was him. Skulking a few criminals with as much quiet as he can muster these days is one thing, but him appearing in Lex Luthor's home? So close to Metropolis? It could lead them into a confrontation, something he knows he can't win, no matter how much he loathes admitting it. With Luthor's residence being a fairly lengthy drive away, it would be nigh impossible for him to get out of there if the alien went after him.

Reluctantly, Bruce conceded to Alfred's point. Bruce Wayne would enter the pit of the little snake Luthor and find out precisely what he knows about this material capable of purging Kryptonian cells. With a weapon like that, the most important mission of his life will finally be do-able. He just needed to hold out a little while longer to complete it.

* * *

 **So, I said we'd go to the party but that would've meant spending a few days making one chapter the length of 3-4 all in one and that didn't really seem appealing to me. Hence, it'll happen next chapter. Once I figure out who's going to be the perspective character of this particular segment (I'm currently leaning on it being Batman since he has the most to say or do there) I'll start working on it.**


	9. First Meetings

Despite some lingering reservations, Bruce drove towards the party in something resembling a good mood.

Just before midday, during a training exercise, Alfred entered the cave and informed him of what happened in the recently build Heroes Park. How someone, in the middle of the night, graffitied FALSE GOD onto the statue of Superman.

 _Good, that thing is a disgrace._

He thought, remembering the day he heard the city's intention to build a statue at ground zero of where he and his kind murdered thousands of innocent people. He could barely stop his fists from shaking when he saw the announcement on his television in Mexico. Were he in Gotham at the time, he would've campaigned against it, giving the anti-Superman supporters a prominent figure to combat Lex who, for some reason, campaigned in favor of the statue.

Given his interest in the rock capable of killing the lone Kryptonian, that we know of, currently on the planet, he suspected Lex had his own plans for the so-called Man of Steel. Not that it mattered what they were, the rock wasn't going to reach him anyway, Bruce would make sure of it. Lex would simply become a convenient pawn in someone else's plans.

He slowed down the car as he approached the driveway outside the building. Its size rivaled that of Wayne Manor in its prime, its appearance was a complete, stark contrast to it, though. Wayne Manor was an old building, one of the most ancient in all of Gotham, almost as old as the family that created it and who's name it bore. Lex' home was, similar to his many complexes and facilities, was all white. Created with that sort of polished sheen you found in any new technologies.

With the dozens upon dozens of reporter cameras going off and the bright lights illuminating it, the place managed to shine as if it were day and not the middle of the night.

The car stopped just in front of the red carpet with a younger, latino man standing ready to park the car for him. Steeling himself for the vultures outside, Bruce took a single, deep breath and smiled at the man with his best fake smile, handing him the keys as he left the vehicle. Immediately, both his sight and sound were bombarded by the reporters, all of whom asked questions regarding his sex life, his rumors about purchasing Kord Industries or any number of things.

As he walked past them and into the building, wearing the same fake smile and waving at them, he couldn't help but wonder that these people, responsible for informing people across the world, thought his sex life was of the highest importance. In a world where the alien just murdered people in Africa.

Still, they were better than the ones blindly supporting him. That was a group of people Bruce simply couldn't abide by, whatever their reasons were.

The inside of the place was, as he expected, packed with dozens upon dozens of well-standing men and women of varying ages talking to one another as aristocrats do. Almost rivaling them in number were the various waiters, personal assistants, caterers and any number of other personnel here to cater to their every whim. That's without even counting the reporters or dates brought along too. Bruce suspected he was the only one to come alone tonight, well, almost.

"You reading me Alfred?"

"Loud and clear sir," The Englishmen responded from the safety of the cave into the tiny device located inside Bruce's ear. "I suggest you wait until the speech to make your move. Everyone will be too busy paying attention to the sound of Luthor's voice to notice you slip by, including Luthor himself."

Bruce gave an affirmative cough, disguising it as clearing his throat. He snatched a martini from a nearby waiter and before he even realized what he was doing, drank almost half of it. Before, he usually just tossed the drink over a balcony or his shoulder to make people think he drank. Now, however, the mere sight of it set off a primal urge to drink the alcohol.

Deciding there was nothing to be done about it, he finished the glass off and plopped it on a nearby table just as he caught sight of Lex Luthor, wearing a proper tuxedo for once, walk up to the stand on the opposite end of the room.

As he and everyone else quickly stopped whatever they were doing to listen, a woman standing near the front of the crowd caught Bruce's attention when she turned around and their eyes met. She was fairly tall, almost as tall as him, with black eyes, lengthy black hair put into a bun. She wore a red dress with a hole in the middle and a golden necklace hanging over her neck.

Only a few women ever caught his attention like that from the many he's dated over the years, only two really and both of them ended up being considerably more trouble than they were worth. His gut was telling him this one was trouble too. Lex began his speech, talking about Greek Gods and how their mythology tied into knowledge and libraries, Bruce couldn't care less. Instead, he coughed again, giving Alfred the signal.

"According to these schematics, there should be a stairwell nearby," Alfred told him as he passed by several people too preoccupied with listening to the speech to notice him. "Travel down through it until you reach the kitchen area, to the left of it is a server room for the wi-fi. You can use it to tap into his systems and database."

Just as Lex entered his usual obnoxious theatrics, talking about Zeus with a choo sound to emphasize the thunderbolt, Bruce traveled down the staircase, passing by more caterers with fresh trays of food. He noticed a bustling kitchen upon reaching the bottom, full of men and women too busy to notice him. Just as Alfred said, nearby was a server room in plain sight with no one guarding it.

Something suspicious but he couldn't pass up the opportunity to get such easy access to Lex' information. Focusing his full attention on the encroaching room, Bruce took a miniature data drive from his pocket and opened the glass door. In the farthest left corner, he found a cable sticking out of the wall and promptly attached his drive to it, initiating the transfer process.

Just when he thought it would be that easy, he was quickly proven wrong. "Mister Wayne?"

The woman's voice, the assistant of Luthor wearing a silver, and black dress called out to him from the door. He mentally cursed himself, getting too caught up with getting the data and failing to check if anyone was following up. Acting quickly, he looked at her, blinking wildly then narrowing his eyes at her.

"Oh..." He said, trying his best to look and sound dumb and confused. "I thought... This isn't the bathroom?"

The woman shook her head with a faint smirk on her face.

"Guess those last few martinis were a few too many!" He exclaimed, laughing like an idiot. "Guess I should uhh hh... Leave?"

"Yes, you should, I'll help you out," She offered, taking his hand and helping him to stay on his feet while he faked tripping a few times up the stairs.

"Go and socialize," Alfred advised, hearing everything. "Who knows? That young lady might make an honest man out of you."

Doing his best not to roll his eyes at Alfred's last bit of advice or the bitter laugh that followed it Bruce, returned back up to the party and smiled at Mercy.

"If you intend to stay, please don't wander off again," She told him, flashing him a charming grin as she let go of his arm.

"Hey!" He called out. "I like those shoes."

With the same grin on, she rolled her eyes at his antics as he smiled dumbly at her, internally groaning himself into an early grave from the sheer stupidity of the statement. She went to her employer just as he began stammering and going off on a tangent, abruptly concluding his speech. Receiving a near overwhelming yet distinctly awkward feeling applause from nearly everyone present.

The woman in red turned around, deliberately meeting his gaze for a moment. That bad feeling he got from his many years of experience with Selina and Talia went off like an alarm in his head, prompting him to keep a very close eye on her.

"Mister Wayne? Mister Wayne!" He momentarily looked away from her and noticed a man, a reporter judging by the notebook and pen in his hand approached him. He wore a gray suit with a dark blue shirt underneath and a dark blue, patterned tie matching it. His must distinguishing feature, however, were his comically large glasses.

"Clark Kent, Daily Planet," The man said, giving Bruce a friendly smile and offering his hand. Bruce half returned the gesture, trying to keep an eye on the woman in read deliberately walking around the two of them so as not to cross his path.

"Oh uh, my foundation has already issued a statement in support of uh..." He lost her in the crowd. "Books..."

The woman in red passed by them from their left, walking down the staircase. "Wow," Bruce said, smirking like an idiot. "Pretty girl, bad habit, don't quote me."

Just when he moved to intercept the woman, the reporter smoke again. "Whats your position on the bat vigilante in Gotham, sir?"

Bruce glanced back at the reporter, sensing the man was clearly going to hound him until he either got what he wanted or was dissuaded from doing so. "Why? It sounds like the same old, same old. He catches the bad guys, puts them away, keeps the streets safe."

"So you don't take issue with the civil liberties being trampled on in your city?" He asked, keeping a formal tone that couldn't quite disguise his stance on the matter. "He recently assaulted a man, in front of his family and branded him. A practice which has put several men in intensive treatment, if it goes on like this, someone could die."

 _What a tragedy that would be,_ Bruce thought, feeling his playboy persona slip into something closer to his actual self. He turned to fully face the man now, noticing how well built he was for a reporter, his height dwarfing even Bruce's. "Don't believe everything you hear son."

"I've seen it, Mister Wayne," The man replied with a sort of righteous conviction Bruce once thought was noble, a long time ago before he learned where that got people. "Good people are living in fear of him, people who've never harmed anyone. Surely you, as a prominent beneficiary to orphanages and other charity organizations would take issue with this kind of behavior?"

Bruce smirked, bitterly while narrowing his eyes at the reporter. "The Daily Planet criticizing someone else for making good, innocent people afraid is a little hypocritical wouldn't you say?"

He took a step closer, his voice getting quieter with a fake and edgy conversational to it. "Considering the fact your... **Superman**..." Bruce practically spits his name out. "Can't save a cat out of a tree with one of you writing a puff piece editorial about an alien who, if he wanted to, could burn the whole place down. And there wouldn't be a damn thing we could do to stop him."

Kent froze for a few moments with Bruce feeling a great deal of satisfaction upon doing so. He knew his type.

"A great many people don't share your opinion, Mister Wayne," Kent replied, trying to stir the same conviction in his face and voice from before but doesn't quite, Bruce hit a nerve.

"Maybe it's just the Gotham City in me talking," Bruce shrugged, not willing to let this alien loving moron get away after goading him into a confrontation. "But we've just got a bad history with freaks dressed like clowns. And now, so do Africa and Metropolis."

"That's seven minutes! The transfer is complete!" Alfred told him with Bruce once again cursing himself for letting these distractions get to him tonight. Distraction he wouldn't have to worry or deal with if he just brought the damn suit for the occasion.

"Boys!" A loud, obnoxious voice called out to them, breaking their stare off. "Clark Kent meets Bruce Wayne! I love it! I love bringing people together."

Mentally cringing once more as the host of the party walked up to them, he forced a smile and shook his hand. "Lex, this is a nice party you've got here."

"Glad you're enjoying it!" He turned to Kent. "Hi, hello, I'm Lex, its a pleasure to meet you!"

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance too, Mister Luthor," Kent shook Luthor's hand. "Thank you for inviting me to this party, even if I'm not sure why."

"Are you kidding? Your articles about the impoverished in Gotham are my favorites! It would be a crime for me not to invite you! Ow!"with Lex reeling it back melodramatically, tapping Kent on the chest, though from the sound of it you'd think he smashed a sledgehammer through a concrete wall. "That's a firm grip you've got here! You should not pick a fight with this guy!"

"Sir! The data drive is gone! Someone has taken it!" Bruce bit back his reaction, examining the room around him to find the woman in red. He knew it was her, even if he had no real proof. After so many years of dealing with her like, he had developed a sixth sense for her type.

"If you're ever feeling up to crossing the Harbor again, we can partner up for something," Lex offered with an odd, knowing look in his eyes. "My R&D divisions are up to all sorts of no good."

 _Oh I know, that's exactly what I'm counting on._ He noticed the woman in walking up the staircase, casting a glance at him as she made her way towards the door.

"Mister Luthor?" His assistant, Mercy whispered into his ear. "It's Senator Finch, she would like to speak with you about the project."

"Oh!" Lex nodding in understanding, looking back and forth from Kent to Bruce. "Sorry guys! I've got some urgent business to deal with! Maybe we can hang out some other time."

"As long as you've got these fantastic martini's on hand, you can count on it," Bruce laughed, walking away from Kent and all but rushing after the woman in red. He couldn't let her get away, not when he was so close to discovering what the White Portuguese was and what its connection to the anti-Kryptonian weapon was.

She seemed to move with an incredible speed, beating out his own half-run and easily passing in-between people whereas Bruce's own, large build and lack of finesse in this instance, made him clumsier and cost him valuable time. He finally exited the building, passing by a few reporters talking about a woman trapped in a fire that erupted during the Day of the Dead parade.

Bruce couldn't muster the time or will to sympathize, if this data slipped through his fingers, all of them would burn soon enough.

The woman in red stood on the street with a silver Lamborghini next to her. She deliberately waited for him to exit, smirking at him before entering the vehicle and speeding off. He could do nothing but watch her leave. Ignoring Alfred's inquires, Bruce clenched his fist and cursed himself and his partner. He should've done things his way, dropping these pointless formalities and appearances.

The next time he felt Batman was needed for the task, he would use him. Alfred and his talk about restraint be damned.

* * *

 **Wow, this was considerably easier to write than I thought it would be! Sorry for the double dose of Batman but don't worry, we'll be moving on to other characters like June, Clark and even Wallace in the coming chapters, giving you all a little break from the bat ;)**


	10. Must There Be A Superman?

The room stood out from the rest of house June noticed as Mercy opened two massive, wooden doors leading into it.

Unlike the rest of Lex Luthor's house, which mirrored his high-tech, polished sheen facilities, his study felt older but not ancient. Wooden desks and bookcases were aligned at key positions, creating an air of wisdom to the place. Old, professionally made paintings hung on the walls, a great many with religious symbolism to them. A massive fireplace, almost the size of a person, was strategically positioned at the north wall, its size and flame creating a sense of ambience the rest of the estate sorely lacked.

Near the fireplace, pouring bourbon into his glass was the owner of the place, Lex Luthor.

Something felt off about him during their first meeting, pleasantries and theatrics masking resentment and something darker, something June didn't like. Especially for a man who wanted access to dangerous alien materials and technologies. Both of which could cause great harm, and great profit, to the man who could master them first.

So, she wanted to make sure her hunch was correct the first time. She studied him at the party, purposefully staying on the sidelines and observing how he talked to people, how he held himself, the tics of his body and face, everything that subconsciously gives someone insight into another person's state of mind. The feeling lingered but she didn't detect anything to solidify her initial suspicions.

Until the speech.

Once more, he spoke of his father, putting on a facade of well acted but distinctly fake nostalgia and longing in his whole demeanor to hide his resentment of the man. A resentment that perpetuated the entirety of the speech. He once again spoke of Gods and mythology, how they affect man and how powerless man is to stop them. But he didn't say it with a sort of fear or righteous conviction the way others, particularly staunch anti-Superman people, did. No, it hid resentment, frustration, and a distinct loathing.

It was when he started rambling about men with great knowledge not having true power and almost having something of a psychotic break that she knew she was right: the man was not well. Even if the resentment and loathing were symptomatic of a psychological issue and not the man's true nature, June still couldn't allow him access to the Kryptonian materials and technologies. But it certainly didn't help that he definitely hid darker intentions, ones she wasn't about to fall in line with.

"Senator!" He exclaimed, giving her a friendly smirk. "Care for a drink? I noticed you didn't touch anything downstairs."

"I like to keep a clear head when discussing business," She shrugged, walking up to him casually.

"Not even a little bourbon?" He raised the glass, offering the alcohol. June shook her head. "A Kentucky gal like yourself?"

She halted a few feet away from him, giving him a fake, friendly smile. "I can't stay long anyway, I'm going back to Washington in two days, there's a lot of work to be done."

"Mmm," Lex mumbled, taking a long sip of the bourbon. "Something my father said quite often himself!"

 _There it is again,_ June thought as she observed him closely, getting more and more sure of her ultimate decision with every passing moment.

"This is his room, you know," His voice trailed off as he eyed the various paintings, books and desks around. Then he looked her right in the eye with a small smirk that looked more like a grimace. "I kept it just the same!"

He walked away, sipping more of the bourbon as he stood before the fireplace. "I thought that, if I did this, dad would come back one day..." He told her with a mock, childish tone that sounded more sad than funny. He let out a small, bitter chuckle before turning around. "It's silly I know. The magical thinking of little orphan boys."

Growing tired of this act and of his very presence, June decided to cut to the chase. "I'm not giving you access to Kryptonian ship, or the import licence for the mineral."

For a few moments, he said nothing, merely looking at her with a blank expression clearly trying to mask outrage. He lowered his head like a scolded child, letting the shadows of the room fall over his eyes. When he looked back up, a sly but cruel smirk graced his features, his eyes growing cold. At that moment, June knew she made the right decision.

"The red capes are coming..." He said with a faint chant, walking up to June. "The red capes are coming!" He walked back to the desk next to June and sat on it, putting them two of them uncomfortably close.

"You and your hearings," She heard a loud thumping beneath her and momentarily glanced down to find Lex's fingers tapping against the bottom of the desk. The rhythm mimicking that of horses galloping. "Galloping through the streets to warn us..." An edge crept into his voice.

"One if by land..." The thumping grew louder, more intense.

"Two if by sea..."

She saw right through the little display, just a cheap way of trying to intimidate and discredit her all at once. No doubt to boost his own clearly wounded ego. But he wasn't the first of his kind June had to deal with and certainly not the worst. She put her her hand over his, silencing the thumping and met his gaze without hesitation.

A shiver ran over his entire body as if he were repulsed by someone like her touching him. He flinched, momentarily breaking eye contact. "Do you know the oldest lie in American, senator," He whispered, the edge never leaving his voice. "Can I call you June?"

"You can call me whatever you like," She replied steely. "Take a bucket of piss and call it granny's peach tea. Take a weapon of assassination and call it deterrence, you won't fool a fly or me. I'm not gonna drink it."

"Do you think he would mind?" He asked with the same childish tone from before as he surveyed the room. "If I changed just one thing in this room?"

He moved away, pointing a finger towards something to June's left. "Because that should be upside down."

It was one of the many paintings hanging on the walls. A religious one, showing angels in golden armor with swords and spears, descending from heaven to the barren underworld, ready to do battle with the forces of hell. With black, horned demons with massive wings protruding from their backs.

"Now we know better don't we," That edge returned to his voice. "Devils don't come from hell beneath us. They come from the sky."

* * *

He always remembered it when he found himself doing this. The first time he flew, the day he met his biological father and first put on the suit. The sense of freedom as he took himself from Antarctica, soaring across the pacific ocean, passing over the tundras of Africa before finally ascending into the upper atmosphere. It was exhilarating, the dream of every little boy come true.

Now, he flew to try and relax from the stressful last few days. Particularly the last 24 hours.

The news of the defaced statue hit him harder than he expected it to. Not because it was an act of vandalism or because they did it to something with his likeness. No, the implications behind the person responsible and what he thought Clark was doing as Superman is what disturbed him.

During the initial few weeks of his debut, it was a perpetual storm of dozens of people with dozens of opinions on who he was, what he wanted to do and how he was going about doing it. Not an unreasonable reaction given how his first true appearance to the larger world was synonymous with a great tragedy. A fevered discussion that reached its height when Heroes Park was announced and that he would be honored in it.

Lois and mom helped him through it. Regular work kept his mind busy when he was in his civvies, writing required a certain amount of finesse and skill that fascinated Clark. For a man who could do so many things easily, he relished the challenge of finding his own voice through his writing, it kept him occupied and gave him a sense of control he felt he lacked then.

But soon, the discussion died down considerably as he kept operating as Superman. Contrary to many people's fears, he didn't attack political figures or enter into political quagmires to assert his own dominion on other people. If an earthquake hit Japan, he was there to help rebuild. If a volcano was about to destroy Hawai, he was there to evacuate the citizens and render it inert. If there was a flood in the south states, he reeled it back and gave people back their nearly washed away lives.

After Africa, however, things changed. The heated discussions were back in full force with various pro and anti-Superman groups in the full swing of things. This time, however, it felt different. It felt more sinister, angrier and Clark was afraid of where it could escalate to. Spraying the term FALSE GOD on his statue could just be the beginning, even if he hoped beyond hope it wasn't.

He never thought of himself as some God sent here to impose his will on others. All he wanted to do was to help people. For the most part, he was little more than a super-powered firefighter. But recent events taught him that just by having great power meant people would view him as one. During a talk show last night with various guests, he saw all sorts of opinions fly around.

How every act he did was a political one. How he was the next Jesus, a mythological figure from ancient Greek tales in flesh and blood here to bring about irreversible change to the world. When one man suggested he was just a good man trying to help, Clark could hear the dismissive snickers from a fair few audience members and even the host.

A few minutes ago, when he went to rescue the girl trapped in the fiery building with no way out, Clark saw this train of thought again, in a far more personal and uncomfortable level. He gently floated her away from the burning structure, giving the weeping teenager a reassuring smile as he landed on the ground. A large group of people, clad in various robes appropriate to the interrupted festival stood around the girls weeping mother.

Clark met their gazes and instantly felt uncomfortable, they looked at him with a sense of reverence, like he was something so far beyond them, they had to move away as he approached. He tried to ignore it, opting to smile at the old woman weeping for her daughter. He gently let the girl go and watched the two of them embrace one another. But before he could take off, he felt hands all over him, touching him and rubbing him.

The sense of reverence towards him was almost palpable. The children, innocent as they are, looked at him as if he were the greatest action figure even made. That he didn't mind so much, if he were in their shoes he'd react the same way. The adults and older people, particularly the religious ones touched him as if that would cure all the misfortune in their lives, the poverty, an illness, bless them with longer life.

It was that look of fearful worshipping that made him want to leave as quickly as possible. He didn't know what to do, what would happen if he left abruptly? What would they do if he tried to push through them? What would they do if they noticed he was feeling uncomfortable in such a position? Would they try to please him, pray to him or run away in terror? None of those scenarios appealed to him very much.

The mother and the girl came to his rescue. Both of them ignoring the people around them and kissing him on the cheeks, they didn't have that same demeanor as the others. To them, he wasn't a god, he was just a man who saved their family from collapse. Clark genuinely smiled at the two of them and, as his mother instructed him to as a boy, used them as a sort of island to focus on as he gently flew off into the night sky.

That was the sole piece of solace Clark found from the whole ordeal, it helped quell the tension building in his gut but he knew it was fleeting. He almost considered flying to Lois or calling his mother. But he knew Lois was neck deep in an investigation, she had her own worries and didn't need to have his own piled on top of them. His mother was probably asleep right now, to wake her up now didn't feel right.

With a sigh, Clark decided to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow was a new day and there were plenty of other things for him to deal with that were readily in his power to solve. The issue of "Must There Be A Superman?" will have to wait, if it ever gets a real answer at all.

* * *

 **The first combo chapter! I didn't intend for it to be like that but neither of these had enough content to stand on their own so I smashed them together. Next time, we'll be moving on to Lois again and then taking a small time skip as we approach the first meeting of Superman and Batman!**


	11. Two Proposals

**Washington DC**

* * *

For most people, Lois wouldn't have to cover her approach this way. As primarily a writing journalist, Lois was known far more via said writing than her actual appearance. It allowed her to meet people, talk to them, approach them about information without needing to deal with a certain hesitation and stigma attached to journalists. Not that Lois could blame others for it, quite a few were annoying persistent and dangerously obsessive.

Then again, skulking a man for two days straight and waiting for him in his favorite restaurant bathroom might just push her into the aforementioned category.

But in this instance, she had no choice. The bullet embedded into her journal, as she told Perry, had no point of origin. It seemed as though no one else had them. No one else sold them. But clearly, someone did have them and did sell them to mercenaries in what is now known as the Superman incident. When more obvious arms dealers and war profiters weren't the source, then it was logical to turn to more powerful, and sneakier ones: the US government.

As secretary of state and former man of the military, he would know the dark dealings of the government, if he wouldn't openly say so to her. She knew from her father how army men felt about such topics. They either ignored them, regarded them as a necessary evil in service to a higher cause or quit in outrage over it. Given the fact Swanwick wasn't living in some house of timber out in the middle of the forest, she logically assumed he fell somewhere in the first two categories.

In her own defense, she tried to reach out to him through official channels but Swanwick was quick to evade her. They met and worked with one another during the Black Zero Event and her reputation, once people realized who she was, preceded her. So, she decided to observe him for a while to pick up on his routine, even if it meant extending her stay for longer than what Perry anticipated. She knew he'd stomach it if only to get something no one else had on the Superman incident.

Suppressing a sigh, her thoughts wandered back to Clark as she waited for Swanwick to enter the men's bathroom. She only heard about the statue being vandalized when she was already landing in DC. A good few hours after it happened. The instant she did, she called Clark to find out if he was okay. He told her he was, that it didn't bother him and that she should focus on the task at hand instead of fussing over him.

The problem was: Clark wasn't a particularly good liar.

His success with protecting his identity came from him being himself both in and out of costume. Though she found him more bold and confident in the suit than in his civvies. He didn't need to pretend like someone else because he wasn't. And he wanted that honesty to shine through by his face being exposed for everyone to see it. Masks made people nervous, an ordinary face didn't. That and the fact many people suspected someone like Superman probably didn't have a "regular" life to bother with like they did.

But mask or no mask, the defacing of the statue eerily reminded her of the initial protests to Heroes Park. How vehemently people argued and protested over it, once almost turning to physical violence which the police forced managed to prevent. She noticed how he intentionally skipped channels with news at home, avoided speaking about it unless he absolutely couldn't do so and noticed him trail off with a thousand yard stare.

He tried to get involved in that incident, to speak with people but Lois talked him out of it. People were already on edge just about the idea of being for or against him there. Him actually appearing could lead to both sides, and the police, attacking one another in the ensuing chaos. It was very hard to speak rationally to people when they were that spiteful and tense. Even if they were aware of their own behavior, they couldn't let go of it well enough to stop themselves.

But things calmed down, Metropolis was being rebuilt and Clark helped out immensely with the entire process save for Heroes Park. Speeding up the entire undertaking, allowing it to become complete in months when it could have taken years. Then he moved on to other places where people needed him, showing everyone what he was really about. It seemed like things were going to enter a sort of normality soon. Until Africa.

Now things were tense again, people were drawing lines in the sand about Clark once more. And if the vandalizing of the statue was any indication, it could get considerably worse unless the truth came out. Even if she suspected Clark himself might not like what the truth actually was.

The door to the bathroom opened and Lois raised her head over the door, using the downed toilet seat to give her leverage. She couldn't help but smirk when she spotted Swanwick. Bringing herself back to ground level, pushed the door open and stood just at the edge of his sight.

He vaguely glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. "I think you've got the wrong room, miss," He told like a gentleman as he buttoned up his pants.

"Secretary Swanwick, you haven't been returning my calls," She told him with a grin, prompting him to take a better look at her.

"Miss Lane," He washed his hands in the sink. "If you'd like an interview, Major Feris is just outside those doors."

"You're treating me like a stranger?" She replied playfully, raising an eyebrow at him.

"No," He turned around to face her. "I'm just treating you like a reporter."

"Far enough," Her smile faded as she decided to cut right to the chase. "Is the US government providing experimental military grade rounds to mercenaries and/or rebels in Africa?"

Swanwick momentarily broke eye contact, bowing his head slightly before meeting her gaze once more. She noticed how he stiffened up with the accusations, something her father did as well whenever she tried to pry something he didn't want her to know out of him.

"You know," Swanwick began, putting his hands into his pockets. "With balls like yours, you belong in here. What's your source on this? A tin foil hat?"

"No, but it's metal," Lois reached into her bag and pulled out the plastic bag containing the bullet pried from her journal. "My sources haven't been able to identify it at all. Not even a close friend working in the Pentagon. The only thing I know about it is that it was used during the Superman incident and that no one knows where it came from. We haven't been told the truth."

"Here's the truth," He stepped closer toward her as an edge crept into his voice. "A nosey reporter went somewhere where she shouldn't have, Superman went to save her like some rogue combatant and things escalated beyond his control."

"Things did escalate," Lois admitted, stepping closer towards him. "But Superman didn't kill anyone. Like I told your grunts in the CIA who, might I add, riled up the rebels in the first place, getting one of their own killed tried to blow me and innocent people up to cover up their own mess, those men were dead and burned well before Superman showed up."

"Because you are most definitely an objective source on Superman," He told her with a sarcastic laugh. "After he saved your life multiple times a year ago, can you really say you're keeping your emotions out of this? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel like you owe him something?"

"I do owe him," She replied without hesitation. "But like you said, I'm a journalist, and I've investigated people I like and dislike for whatever reason before and that never stopped me before. This time is no different."

That wasn't entirely the truth but a good way to cover up a lie is with a few sprinkles of honesty throughout.

"Look," She sighed. "I went to the desert and people died for no good reason I can find. It keeps me up at night, it should," She reached out to him with the bullet bag. "If you really believe Superman murdered those people, then you can throw this in the toilet and we'll never see each other again."

Swanwick glanced between her and the bag, the previous stern expression replaced by a conflicted one. With a loud sigh, his shoulders slumped and he took the evidence. "I'll see what I can do," He slid the bag into his suit pocket. "But it'll take me a few days, and I'll be calling in a lot of favors to find it what you want."

Lois smiled. "Thank you,"

"Don't thank me yet," He warned her. "The things you want me to look into aren't the kind you talk about casually, especially in this city. I'm gonna be putting my neck out on the line for this so I need an assurance from you before I completely agree to this."

"Anything," Lois promised without hesitation.

"No interviews or statements from me on this. Whatever I find out about this bullet, I tell you as a friend and that's it. But if you think I'll be exposing potential government secrets-"

"I wouldn't want you to," Lois reassured him. "I'm an army brat general, I know how you guys feel about this stuff."

Swanwick snorted. "Yet you ask anyway."

"The truth needs to have its day in the sun," She told him with a confident smile and promptly walk out of the bathroom. As she walked back onto the streets of DC, she a lot better than she had since before leaving for Africa. There was no guarantee Swanwick would find anything, but the possibility that he could. The possibility of the truth coming out was enough for her.

* * *

 **Gotham City**

Wallace Keefe felt better in these past few days than he could remember at any other point after the Kryptonian invasion. The one responsible for costing him his legs, his job and recently, even his family. The damage tone to his legs was severe, amputation was the only option or the dead flesh would've left his healthy body parts at risk. He still felt them, a sort of phantom pain that was common with amputees, even if they were aware of their limbs being gone, the brain wasn't so quick to catch up.

Ever since they day it happened, Wallace felt a rage building up perpetually inside him. A rage against the whole ordeal, against the alien god who caused it to happen and even against his own, former employer Bruce Wayne. The man who left for months on end doing God knows what with God knows who, probably drinking and whoring himself into an even earlier grave. At a time when his employees, his family, needed him. A time when the people against Superman needed a voice in the Heroes Park protests to combat Lex Luthor.

But he wasn't there. He just ran away and left them all to pick up the pieces of their ruined lives. Thinking his various money payments would keep them happy. Wallace only accepted it for his surgery, and never since. He sent the payment checks back to Wayne, telling him of how he failed his people when they needed him. A practice going on for months by now, and given the lack of response from him, Wallace knew he was right: Wayne didn't care.

A realization which, along with the failure of the protest group to prevent the Heroes Park monument from being built, took a toll on him. Not helped at all by his wife choosing to leave him alone in Gotham, taking their daughter away with her. He spiraled into a sense of depression for a time, trying to find comfort in alcohol and collecting evidence of the so-called "good deeds" of The Superman. Anything to keep his boiling anger and sense of helplessness at bay.

But then Batman came back, and everything changed.

One man in a costume, taking the law into his own hands when other, more official parties didn't have the balls to. Using his new method of branding to send a clear message to people: Gotham belonged to the Batman and you can't do a damn thing about it. Wallace remembered the news of the first branding, how it sent a jolt of inspiration through his person like electricity. He was awestruck by how such a simple act could send such a clear message. At that moment he knew the time had come, he needed to continue the work of his previous protest group.

So he did, wearing a makeshift Batman mask, he rolled into Heroes Park during the cloak of night and climbed onto the statue with some difficulty. He sprayed his message on it and promptly wheeled away. Given the multitude of people he passed on the way there and the lack of any police officers after him, Wallace knew he succeeded. He doubted he was even a suspect, who'd believe a cripple would do such a thing? For once, his disability paid off.

Now the heat was back on Superman, further fueled by the allegations of him murdering rebel soldiers in Africa. Wallace couldn't be happier about it, the world was in danger and he found it so bizarre that people were alright with such a threat flying around with no one controlling him. No one to keep him in check. The gears were turning again, his old protest buddies were already busy gathering old members back together again for a march on Washington DC, to speak with the leader of the Superman committee.

As he exited the elevator to his tenement building, Wallace wheeled over to the door of his apartment when he noticed a man standing next to the door. He wore a long, black winter jack which covered a majority of his body all the way down to his knees. He had short, black slide back hair and the look of a man who'd seen things and promptly killed anything approaching warmth in himself for it.

"Mister Keefe?" The man walked up to him, giving him a warm smile and extending his hand out for a shake. Wallace slowly shook it. "Frank Robbins, representative of a party interested in your cause, sir."

"My cause?" Wallace raised an eyebrow at the man.

Frank nodded. "Of course, could we speak of it inside?"

"Sure..." Wallace pushed his chair to face the door, opening it with the twist of his key. Swinging the door open, he went towards the kitchen to leave his groceries. "Sorry about the mess," He told Frank hospitably. "I don't get many guests around here."

"I've seen worse," Is all Frank said on the matter as he sat down at the meager dinner table next to the couch and television. Wallace reached into the fridge and gestured towards some beer but Frank shook his head.

"So," Wallace began, wheeling himself over to the table with a cold one in hand. "What was this about my cause?"

"Come now, mister Keefe," Frank leaned back into the chair. "We both know your dealings with the anti-Superman initiative, you were one of its first and strongest supporters. Always at the front lines during the Heroes Park protests, you even managed to get yourself caught on camera for a few minutes."

"And yet my talent agent hasn't called me about any work," Wallace joked, earning something resembling an honest chuckle from Frank. "What exactly did you have in mind for my group?"

"Not your group, per say," Frank reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. "But you specifically."

Frank pulled out an envelope and handed it over to the man in the wheelchair. "In there you will find 50 000 dollars, an airplane ticket to Washington DC, the address of a suit tailor, stylist, both of whom have been paid in advance and the address of an all expense paid hotel in the city during your stay there."

Wallace looked at the man with a blank expression on his face as he tried to process everything he just told him. Without a word, he reached into the envelope and found everything inside. The addresses, pictures of what the places look like, the 50 grand. All he now lacked was the motive behind it.

"Who are you?" He pushed back the envelope, eyeing Frank with suspicion. If that was even his real name.

"As I told you, I represent an anonymous party interested in furthering your cause."

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it that you're on the up and up?" Wallace asked with skepticism oozing from every word. "How do I know you're not some terrorist group using me for their own agenda or some politician in DC trying screw over the competition by backing me up?"

"The only one we're trying to screw over, Mister Wallace," Frank told him conversationally but not without a slight edge to his voice. "Is Superman. My employer also lost a great deal during the Superman attack and with the recent events in Africa, he feels it is time for someone who shares his ideals to go before the Superman committee and give the cause a face and a voice. Someone who can perhaps even bring the Man of Steel himself there and face him down."

"Why me, though? Why not Gary or Marshall? They're the ones who've lead us so far."

"Because mister Keefe," Frank leaned in towards the man, pulling out the phone from his pocket and handing it over to him. "We know you're willing to go the extra mile."

Wallace felt a shiver go down his spine as he watched the footage play out. He saw himself rolling towards the statue from an overhead angle, likely from a camera hidden in the trees. Seeing enough, he gave the phone back to Frank. "Okay," Wallace exhaled. "You've made your point."

"Don't look so defeated mister Wallace," Frank patted him on the shoulder though to Wallace it felt as strong as the worst punches he's ever gotten. "We're not blackmailing you into this, we're giving you an opportunity to show the world who Superman really is. To look him in the eye and let him know what he's done to you, and thousands of others."

In spite of the warnings a saner part of his mind was sending to him, Wallace couldn't help but let the temptation of the offer overwhelm him. His imagined himself on Capitol Hill. Facing down Superman, letting him know what the world really thought of him. Protests and vandalizing could only get him so far, this was the next step. The necessary step to bring about real change in the world. A validation of everything he's lost and fought for over the past year.

He would be a fool to miss this opportunity, the identity of this anonymous party and his motivations be damned.

With a grin on his face, Wallace reached out the Frank. "You've got yourself a deal."

* * *

 **Another two in one! Like last time I thought about making these individual chapters but neither had the 2000 word minimum limit I wanted so I smashed them together. For the next two chapters, you can expect some Clark/Superman action and an entirely original scene that wasn't in the film but one I think you'll find works in the context of the story. Then, we'll be moving on to the Knightmare & First Meeting! **


	12. The Angles To A Story

He shouldn't have been surprised when he saw the pictures last night among his email. Sent to him by someone claiming to be a friend. They came about an hour before the news broke everywhere else.

He knew full well what happened to a certain group of people inside prisons. The ones perceived as the worst of the worst: the rapists, the pedophiles, the child abusers,... The ones most loathed by society outside, and even by their fellow inmates. So much so, Lois told him officers used fake allegations of rape or pedophilia during interrogations to coerce potential suspects into confessing or sharing any information they had.

They were afraid of what the other inmates would do to them. Even among regular people, things like this got around. But now with the Bat-brand? Carlos Santos didn't stand a prayer, the mark made sure of that. Even after they transferred him over to Metropolis to avoid the same fate as another, hospitalized inmate, that symbol burned into his shoulder made sure he'd die in those walls.

Clark knew all of these facts very well, and he still couldn't stop staring at the photographs as the taxi cab drove him towards his destination. Of the man lying on some metal slab, completely devoid of life and of anything resembling a future if he ever got out. Most people would say Carlos Santos deserved it, he sold people like cattle, abducting them from their homes and taking their future away from them.

To a degree, he could understand feeling that way as someone who merely saw it on the news or heard about it second hand. But he couldn't fathom how anyone could look at these photographs without a chill going down their spine. Then again, Clark remembered how dismissive people were about Gotham. Even those living in it. All of them were so used to the violence and bleakness of the place they could only react to more news about it with apathy.

Clark didn't particularly care for this train of thought.

The cab halted just a few steps outside the GCPD headquarters. It was a tall building, at least 8 stories with an older quality to it you couldn't find in Metropolis. Like the rest of the city, it had a sort of Gothic feel to it, with a large, spiraling tower piercing into the sky with gargoyles position to face each direction of a compass. Smoke emitted from the many ventilation shafts, adding, along with a great many pipes protruding from the walls, a disheveled quality to it as well.

It was, as expected, filled to the brim with officers and regular people either waiting or walking around all over the place. The smell of coffee and sweat permeated the air, forcing Clark to suppress as much this enhanced sense as he could, along with his better hearing to not get overloaded by it all. Managing to squeeze through over a dozen people, Clark stopped at the reception desk and smiled at the older man there.

"Hi, I'm Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet," He told the officer politely, showing him the Planet badge hanging around his neck. "I was hoping if you could help me about the recent Santos incident? Maybe help with some information or-"

"Sorry," She sternly cut him off. "Can't tell you anything about that."

Before he could ask more, she walked off. Feeling somewhat defeated, he lowered his head and noticed a caricature paper embedded into the wood. On the paper, he saw two exaggerated people drawn. One a classical, cartoon thief with a stripped shirt, domino mask and bag of money slipping out of his grasp. Coming towards him was a police officer, winding up for a swing with his baton. Behind the officer there was a searchlight shining the Batman's symbol into the air, giving off the impression the officer was going to hit the crook with it. At the bottom of the wood, Clark frowned as he read "BAT'er up!"

He couldn't help but shake his head at this and promptly let go of the limitation on his hearing. All around him, people were talking about the branding incident, and disturbingly, from a great deal of officers and other, ordinary people waiting, he found a great deal of admiration towards the Batman for the act. He heard angrier men proclaim he should've done something like this sooner, that the bastard crooks would think twice about going out now. More skeptical people were appreciative of this new deterrent against Gotham's criminal element but wondered about how long before the so-called bad guys responded with something equally as vicious.

Just when he felt his heart sink, Clark heard a pair of voices argue somewhere near the top of the building. One loud, obnoxious the other, gruff but with an air of respectful authority to it.

"C'mon Jimbo!" The obnoxious voice said. "The Bat's losing it! How long before he starts putting guys down personally instead of letting the crooks shank one another?"

"We don't know if it's him, Harvey!" The gruff voice replied. "He hasn't spoken to me at all since these new reports have come out and it wouldn't be the first time someone tried to turn us against him! Need I remind you of the time Mad Hater brainwashed him?"

"Or the reason he won't show up when you put the light up is because he knows exactly what he's doing and isn't man enough to face you!"

"Or he hasn't shown up because it's not him and whoever's copying him doesn't want me to figure it out!" The gruff voice bit back.

"Please!" The obnoxious voice scoffed. "You know as well as I do the perfect way for a copy cat to throw everyone off is to play nice with you! Something fishy's going on here Jimbo! I might not be the biggest fan of these crooks or the Bat, but I put up with him because he wouldn't cross the line! Now he did and you're gonna have to-"

Hey, Daily Planet!" A loud whisper called out to Clark from the reception, turning his attention away from the conversation above and back to his own surroundings.

Clark glanced towards a younger police officer than the one from before with slid back brown hair and a sympathetic look in his eyes. "The girl with the baby."

Turning towards the direction of the crying baby's whales, Clark noticed a latino woman with red eyes sitting down, trying desperately to calm her infant down with little in the way of success.

"That's Santino's wife," The officer whispered to him.

"Thank you," Clark told the man just as another officer approached her with plastic bags in both his hands. He heard the policeman give her his half-hearted condolences and scurried off as Miss Santino grabbed the bags out of his hands and made her way outside.

Clark didn't want to bother her this way, but he knew that if he wanted her late husband a voice in the media storm, he would have to disturb a woman who looked ready to, rightfully, punch anyone in the face.

"Miss Santos!" He called out the woman as she reached the street, she turned around and eyed him with suspicion. Clark knew he had to handle this delicately. "My name is Clark Kent, I'm a-"

"Reporter, I can see your badge," She told him between sniffs, the full effect of this on her person becoming apparent to Clark as he looked at her this closely. She had large, black circles under her red, puffy eyes. She sniffed constantly, her greasy hair tied back into a ponytail.

"That's right," He confirmed softly. "I know I'm probably one of the last people you want to talk to right now. But I want to help."

She laughed, or a short, bitter approximation of one. "You can't help me, nobody can."

"I can help tell your side of the story," Clark gave her a small smile. "Everyone else is busy talking about how your husband got what he deserved, or what this means for Batman... They're all either focusing on your husband's mistakes or trying to use him of an example for whatever agenda they want. They need to see him as another human being."

"You must be new around here," She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. "Cause that's not how things work in Gotham. Nobody cares about people like us here. We're left to fend for ourselves and when we become criminals, we just prove em right."

"That's why people need to hear this," Clark urged her. "They need to hear about what lead your husband to this."

"It doesn't matter," She shook her head. "Gotham might pretend we're all together for a football game from time to time, but it's every man for himself here. Nothings gonna change that, plenty of people tried and they all went crazy or gave up."

Miss Cantos took a deep breath. "I know what my husband was, I know what he did to put food on the table," She trailed off as tears started gathering back into her eyes. "But he was a father too..."

Her despair was quickly replaced by an anger. "But the Bat is the Bat, right? He's the good guy and everyone he goes after is the bad guy! Don't think I didn't hear what they were saying in there, I'm not stupid. They're loving this and they're not gonna throw the Bat under the bus. Everyone else? They're too scared to stand up to him."

"You're wrong," He took a step forward, letting his Superman confidence bleed out this time. "There are people who aren't afraid of him, but we can't do anything about it if we stay quiet."

"The Bat is like the rest of those freaks," She held her infant closer as she prepared to leave. "Does what he wants wherever he wants. Only difference is he pretends to be the good guy. You wanna stop him? You gotta put him down, permanently, otherwise he'll just break out like the rest of em."

Sensing he was fighting a losing battle, Clark let her go and watched as he got into a nearby bus. As he stood there, he attuned his listening to the goings on in the building to find the voices debating on the Batman from before but they split off. The voice speaking in favor of the Batman caught his attention, it wasn't like the others, citing this recent development as a positive change to his usual method of simply bringing people into custody.

Clark recognized it as the voice of Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon. One of the few cops who stayed clean during the zenith of Gotham's corruption and was among the first to support the Batman. Despite never officially recognizing or admitting his cooperation with the vigilante. The two cooperated constantly, as evidenced by a search light Gordon kept on the roof of the police department.

In any other city, this would have gotten a Commissioner fired. But this was Gotham, nothing here worked like other cities.

It would be easy to write off the Batman as a lunatic. God knew Clark would feel easier if it was that simple. But he knew the Bat was once something better, a symbol of positive change for Gotham, one man taking on the criminal element to better his city. Doing what the police couldn't or wouldn't at the height of corruption.

He knew the Batman had his own side in this story, and as Lois taught him, only by looking a story through multiple angles, could you arrive at the truth. And Jim Gordon might just be the man capable of doing this without confronting the man-in-question up front.

Miss Santos was right, however, about one lone reporter not being able to tackle a task such as the Batman. Clark knew that this was a job for Superman.

* * *

 **Nex time, Superman meets Gordon and we get more insight into Bruce/Batman pre-DOJ! I've been waiting to write this part since I started out and hopefully I give such an epic meeting the quality it deserves.**


	13. Another Chance

"Who the hell turned to the light on?!"

Clark heard James Gordon, police commissioner of Gotham City yell to his many fellow officers from the other side of the city as he finally took notice of the searchlight, usually meant to call upon the Batman, now blaze in the sky without his supervision. Ironically being used to summon him instead as he'd soon find out. But first things first, Clark had to settle one other matter, the twelfth he'd have to deal with in the mere half hour since he started patrolling around Gotham City while he waited for Gordon.

The woman's screams for help were as clear as if he were standing next to her despite being far up in the sky. Her bare feet crashed against the cold concrete floor, given by the scant way she was dressed, Clark assumed she must've been going to a party in high heels.

Every other step she almost slipped on the ice, but the taunts and laughter of her three pursuers gave her the determination to keep running. Even if they were rapidly gaining up to her.

One of them took out a switchblade, Clark heard it whizz through the air along with the mechanical parts moving in and out of the blade. Their taunts only grew worse as the woman's throat gave out from the screaming and the assault of the winter air.

They never reached her.

In a blur of motion, Clark rounded up all three of them next to a broken street light and bent the metal around their bodies. As he stood before them, their initial reactions were confusion and terror before degenerating into more threats akin to the ones thrown at the escaping woman.

Clark was worried they'd just stare at him as a God, instead, they were either to violent or crazy to become intimidated by his display of power or his presence. If those were some of the only ways to not get the reaction he feared from people, he couldn't decide what he disliked more.

Hearing that Gordon had reached the roof, Clark decided to leave them there for a bit. He'd be speaking to the proper authorities soon anyway and they were far better prepared to deal with the cold than their potential victim was.

He flew back into the sky, over the black and smoky rooftops of Gotham City with a light snowstorm blasting over him. He could hear more pleas for help, more potential disasters that could use his assistance, but he couldn't answer them all. Even if he tried to do it for Gotham, there would be more in countless other places around the world.

With Gotham, as much as he wouldn't admit it, he felt somewhat glad blocking it out. To other people approaching it from the sky from planes, Clark assumed they'd look down on the city and forget its reputation, maybe even seeing an achievement. But if they could hear the things Clark did, it wouldn't last long.

Upon reaching the GCPD building rooftop, he heard Commissioner Gordon mumble something about rookie officers playing a prank on him, his ass being frozen off out here and a desperate urge to head him for his hidden cigar stash. He descended from the sky slowly, making nary a sound as Gordon fiddled with the searchlights controls.

"You're getting sloppy," Gordon told him as he de-activated the light. "You don't usually make this much noise when I get here."

"I'll try to be quieter next time, Commissioner," Clark replied conversationally, hoping to make the awkward first few minutes a little less so. He noticed Gordon stiffen up at unexpected voice addressing him.

From inside his coat's pocket, Clark noticed Gordon take hold of his pistol as he slowly turned around to face the man he knew was not his vigilante friend. Upon laying eyes on the descending Superman, Gordon froze for a moment just as the thugs did.

Clark tried to give him his most reassuring smile upon touching the ground. "I'm sorry for calling you this way but I didn't know how else to get in touch with you."

"Get in touch with..." Gordon mumbled before shaking his head. "What is this? Some kind of prank? Did Broflowski set this up?"

"I assure you Commissioner, I'm the real deal."

"Prove it," Gordon challenged. "Do something only Superman could."

Clark raised an eyebrow at the man but couldn't really blame him. Given the stories he'd read up on Gordon's experiences with people in costumes, many of which involved powerful hallucinogenics and other forms of trickery, he couldn't exactly blame the man for doubting this was truly Superman standing in front of him.

"Okay, uh," Clark looked around, trying to figure out what exactly he could do to prove his identity. He couldn't do anything too loud or bombastic as that would potentially compromise the privacy of their potential conversation. Something Clark wanted to preserve.

"How about I get something from your house?" He suggested to which Gordon visibly stiffened up even more if that were possible. He knelt down, picking up a small pebble from the ground. "Anything you want and I'll have it back here before this rock hits the ground."

Gordon's eyes darted from Clark's face to the pebble he left to eye level suspiciously. With a great deal of reluctance, he tossed Clark his apartment keys and simply nodded. Clark nodded back and the instant the pebble left his hand, he vanished with a powerful gust of the wind in his wake.

A split second later, he was back with another gust of wind accompanying his return. A moment before the pebble hit the floor with a smirking Clark standing next to it, holding a small wooden box in one hand and Gordon's house keys in the other.

"Your hidden stash of cigars," Clark told the man as he handed him over his belongings. "I heard you mumble about needing it when you came to turn the light off."

Gordon took the keys and box in his hand as if they were from another world. All of his previous stiffness faded along with his suspicion and a big dumb smile spread across his face.

"You're Superman," He whispered, earning an affirmative nod. Then he started to laugh heartily at his own foolishness. "Wow, I am so sorry for acting like an ass! Can I get you anything?" He glanced back at the wooden box in his hand. "Maybe a cigar?" Gordon nudged it forward a bit for extra emphasis.

Clark gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. "No thanks, I'm not much of a cigar man."

"Smart man," Gordon chuckled. "My daughter wishes I could say no like that. She'd kill me if she knew about this."

"Your secrets safe with me Commissioner."

"I appreciate that," Gordon gave him an appreciative smile. "Not to sound paranoid again, but why are you here? Shouldn't you be punching tsunami's or fighting aliens in the Bermuda triangle."

"I prefer jumping into volcanos when I'm off duty," Clark joked. "But tonight, I was hoping I could talk to you."

"Talk? To me?" Gordon laughed again. "I can't imagine what you'd want to talk to me about-" He abruptly stopped, growing tenser as he remembered the one subject a person like Superman would be interested in speaking to him about.

"The Cantos murder," He said flatly, earning a somber look from Clark which spoke volumes about his answer. Gordon nodded his head as all the previous joy evaporated from him. Even if he couldn't put himself directly into the man's skin, Clark noticed how old and tired he looked under the weight of the incident over his shoulders. "You want me to bring him in, don't you?"

"I'd like to avoid that, if possible," Clark admits. "He and I are a lot alike, we both operate outside the law to help people when the law can't quite cut it."

"But you draw the line at murder," Gordon concludes. "So does he."

"I'm not so sure about that," Clark counters. "I've read about what he's done for Gotham, how the two of you have tried keeping this place together when others like Harvey Dent couldn't. And you did it without compromising who you are, I respect you both for that. But this branding... It changes things."

Gordon said nothing for a little while, instead, he simply stared at Clark with an unreadable expression. "You're wrong," He said somberly, walking up to the edge of the rooftop. "I wasn't always the rock you might think I am."

Clark said nothing, opting to let the older man speak his mind. "You said you read up on me and him, then you know about the time Black Mask showed up?"

He did. Almost a decade ago, on the tenth anniversary of Gordon's tenure as Commissioner of the GCPD, a paradigm shift happened in the criminal underworld. One caused by the notorious Black Mask, otherwise known as Roman Sionis. He carved a quick and bloody swath through his fellow crime lords, annexing their territory and power for himself and even managing to put most of the so-called freaks under his boot.

It was also the year long bloodbath that caused the death of Gordon's second wife, Sarah Essen.

"It changed me, you know," Gordon says as if reading Clark's mind. "For months, all I could think about was getting to Black Mask. Not to for anything else but to kill him."

He shook his head.

"I did a lot of things back then I'm not proud of. I got a lot of people, my own people, killed just so I could get to him. Officers and even criminals who didn't need to die did because of me. Because I lost my way."

Then he turned to look Clark right in the eye. "But Batman didn't give up on me. When I had Sionis' life in my crosshairs, he talked me down and saved my soul. He gave me another chance."

Clark quickly understood the older man's point. "And you think he's the one who's lost his way now?"

"I do," He said without hesitation. "I've never met a man with as much self-restraint as him. Not on the force or in the army. People always find ways to justify cruelty by using other people's mistakes as excuses. He never did. Even after years of seeing the worst mankind has to offer, he didn't budge," Gordon looked away, staring at the ground. "But he's still a man, and men have their limits. They make mistakes, do things they regret,..."

The weight Gordon had on his shoulders at the mention of the Santos murder seemed nothing in comparison to the one that hung over his back at that moment. His words spoke true for Clark, he knew how it felt to take a life with Zod and how profoundly it affected him.

"He's gone through a lot," Gordon said with a deep sadness to his voice. "And I knew when he fell off the radar when the kid died that he'd never be the same again."

Clark couldn't help but cringe at the mention of Robin. Details concerning his disappearance were numerous and contradictory save for the Joker having a hand in it. That, and Batman vanishing off the face of the Earth for half a decade following the event.

The person-in-question had been Batman's partner for years, a confidant and ally closer to him than even Gordon. To lose someone like that to a psychopath like the Joker... Clark sympathized with the man, and couldn't blame him for his choice following the incident.

He looked Clark right in the eye once more. "But I'm not going to give up on him. What he did to Santos was cruel and he didn't deserve that. But he doesn't deserve going to prison without another chance, I owe him that much."

"I understand, Commissioner," Clark reassured the man calmly. "I know what he's done for this city and I don't want to be his enemy. But if he keeps going like this..."

"If he keeps going like this I'll throw the book at him myself," Gordon told Clark matter of factly, somewhat taking the younger man by surprise with the conviction with which he said so. "He'd have done the same for me if I hadn't listened back then"

Gordon sighed again. "I want to help my friend, Superman, but if he won't listen to reason, then I'll do what I have to for the good of the whole city. You can be sure of that."

"I'll keep that in mind, Commissioner," Clark promised him. "And what you said about people losing their way sometimes. Trust me, I know what it feels like to do something you regret in a bad situation."

"I know you do son," Gordon told him with a tone that sounded eerily similar to the one Jonathan Kent used when speaking to his child. "And you learned from it, same as me. I just hope you can extend that same courtesy to my friend. I think he's earned that."

With a final shake of the man's hand, Clark bid a silent farewell to Gordon and to Gotham, at least for tonight. He would have to keep an ear and eye out for the goings on in the city for some time to come.

As he flew back to his own home in Metropolis across the bay, Clark felt pulled in two directions. One giving him hope for a better resolution to his issues with Batman, an ending that would hold a better future for the man and his city.

The other terrified him. If the Batman had truly lost his way and had no intention of stopping his brutal escalation on the war on crime, what would that mean for Clark? If someone with as much conviction as the Batman could irreversibly break after enough tragedies and hardships, how long could Clark last before the same eventually happened to him?

* * *

 **Sorry for the long wait but I had several written and oral college exams to do and went through many different iterations of this chapter before settling on this. I've already got a good chunk of the next one done so hopefully it'll be done in a more timely fashion.**


	14. How Many Good Guys Are Left?

_Goddamn, Alfred and his restraint._

The thought crossed Bruce's mind for what felt like the ten-thousandth time since the failure of the party as he entered the elevator leading towards the cave. He knew he should've gone to the party as Batman, breaking into the place and taking the data by any means necessary. He knew listening to Alfred would leave him open to too many distractions and openings. Both of which the woman in red, now known to him as Diana Prince, used to take his drive from him.

He couldn't even attempt proper break into Luthor's home, his assistant Mercy Graves noticed Bruce Wayne fiddling around with the server computers. Not exactly a smoking gun but something that could make Luthor nervous and make things even more difficult. Nor could he approach Diana as Batman either, she knew he was up to no good and having Batman confront her drive would only lead to the same issue.

Instead, he had to follow leads on Diana Prince through the media and any scrap of information he could find online. Revealing her profession as an antique dealer, not exactly a bad cover for a thief. It gave her access to museums and events for all sorts of rare and highly valuable things across the planet, both legal and illegal, giving her other people's openings to use to her advantage.

Bruce knew the modus operandi well, Selina wouldn't have failed half as often as she did if he didn't.

In spite of her chosen profession of appearing in many public events, there was very little known about Diana Prince herself. Her birth certificate listed her age at 32, her birthplace as Greece and a whole lot of other things Bruce thought probably weren't true. Thieves didn't give out real information about themselves unless they had absolutely no choice. He doubted any of it was true.

What he had to do for the past few days is what particularly made him curse Alfred, his advice and more than a few times himself for listening to said advice. He had to go to more parties, talking to entitled rich idiots too busy fussing over their golden private jets or divorces or illegitimate children or any number of other pointless things while the whole world could end within an hour with the alien flying around.

When he wasn't at parties, he had to spend the day time disguising around the city. Using a multitude of different identities to procure information. Sometimes he played the role of a delivery man to a hotel receptionist. Other times as a private investigator paying off addicts on the street to check if they saw Diana Prince nearby.

At least when he was hunting Knyazev and his men, he had a way to vent his frustrations. He felt like he was making progress towards his ultimate goal, with the parties? Nothing but frustration. Several days were lost this way with nary a sight from this Diana Prince. If it wasn't for the free liquor at these events after his many disguising escapades to dull his senses and his temper, Bruce probably would have lost it. He finally caught a break when he overheard a particular curator talk about the woman in question seeing him in another party tomorrow night. She was supposedly coming to inspect the Sword of Alexander.

Bruce knew it was a fake, the real one was halfway across the world in India.

Despite his foul mood, he felt a tiny scrap of accomplishment as the cave reached its destination, a feel which immediately evaporated when he found Alfred waiting for him. The older man looked tired and as angry as Bruce felt. He stared at Bruce with a scowl, his arms crossed over his chest while a newspaper dangled from one of his hands.

"We need to talk," Alfred said with the same tone he used when Bruce got into trouble as a boy and had to face the consequences. There was when Bruce felt fear upon hearing that authoritative tone, later replaced by worry. Now? He was too angry at the man and himself still to care.

"Whatever it is, I'm not in the mood," He replied dismissively, walking away from the man as he removed the upper piece of his suit from his shoulders. He immediately recognized the man's face, it was the trafficker he branded in the house where the cop almost shot him. The second man he branded, Carlos Santos was found

"I don't give a damn what mood you're in," Alfred countered as he stormed after Bruce. "Have you seen the news? Read a newspaper? Done anything but blindly hunt down the woman who stole the drive away from you these past 24 hours?"

"I might have if you just let me do things my way," Bruce turned around with a scowl to match Alfred's, letting his Batman growl seep into his voice.

Instead of shocking Alfred, the Englishman scoffed at the effort. "And what way would that have been? Smashing through the house with the car? Bombing the roof with the jet? Breaking Lex Luthor's limbs until you got what you wanted? Perhaps delivering a branding as a parting gift to the host?"

Bruce took a long breath to steady himself. "We've been over this-"

"There was always a difference between us and criminals sir!" Alfred snapped, visibly using all the self-restraint he had to not outright yell. "You made this distinction when you first became Batman! You would operate outside the law but never take things to an extreme! You were the one who convinced me this was all about improving Gotham! To ensure it had a future! That it wasn't a tool for you to take out your frustrations out on other people cleverly disguised as a nobler crusade!"

"It still is!" Bruce growled. "It's more important than ever! It isn't just about stopping some crooks, Alfred! It's about saving the world! Making sure it has a future!"

"And how, pray tell, does this," He pushed the newspaper into Bruce's chest. "Help you save the world?"

Taking the paper into his hand and curious in spite of his foul mood, Bruce snapped it open and shuffled through the pages until he reaching the one marked by Alfred.

 **Bat-brand Claims First Victim!**

He read the article in silence, taking in the information presented in it. Carlos Santos, Bruce recognized him only upon laying eyes on his photograph. For an instant, he felt something hard hit him. A rush of guilt and shame upon reading about his widowed wife and fatherless son, at that moment, he considered rethinking all of this.

But then he remembered the night when he caught Santos. When he listened to him drag women into that dark pit of a basement in the middle of winter. People taken from their homes to some terrible place before being shipped off to suffer and die somewhere else. With a renewed anger, he bashed the guilt back into the recesses of his mind and slammed the newspaper into Alfred's chest.

"I don't see why this is my fault," He told Alfred plainly. "Sex traffickers, pedophiles, child killers,... They all get fund out in prison sooner or later. If he wanted to stay alive, he should've stopped."

"A fine point had you not made him into a target!" Alfred countered. "You are the one who put the mark on his chest, a fact which caused the media to put him in the center of a maelstrom. His chances were poor sir, but you sealed his fate when you did this to him!"

"It did what it was supposed to," Bruce walked off towards the computer with Alfred trailing behind him. "It sent a message to all of them out there, keep doing what you do, and you'll pay for it."

"If that's what your intention is, you might as well put them out of their misery right away," Spit back. "It would be quite a bit quicker."

Bruce let out a small, bitter laugh when he turned to face him. "Really? Me burning their skin is too much but breaking their bones is fine? I don't know if you noticed Alfred, but I've never been the nicest guy in the suit."

"And as I told you already sir, your actions beforehand served a greater purpose." Alfred reiterated the point from earlier. "You might have hurt people, but you always left their fate up to the law when you brought them in! Now you're becoming an executioner by virtue of making these people targets!"

"A real tragedy that!" Bruce shook his head in disgust. "One of them died? So what? Someone, out there's probably already replaced him. At least this way they'll be too scared to keep doing it, THAT is the point of the branding, showing them actual consequences for a life of crime."

"And this is your plan to save the world?" Alfred crossed his arms, eagerly waiting for his answer.

Bruce considered simply saying yes to end the conversation there and go about his business. But this argument was getting to him, even though he knew Alfred wouldn't like his true intentions for returning to the role of Batman, this fight between them has spurned a child-like desire to make the man see things from his point. To validate his decisions with his consent.

With a sigh, Bruce ran a hand through his hair and made his choice.

"Three months ago, something was discovered in the bottom of the Indian Ocean where the Kryptonian World Engine landed," He looked Alfred right in the eye and noticed his anger subside somewhat. "It's a weapon, one capable of weakening Kryptonian cells, making them just as vulnerable as the rest of us to injury."

"And Lex Luthor has this?" Alfred rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That would explain your sudden interest in his data."

"He does," Bruce confirmed with a nod. "He's trying to speak to the head of the Superman committee to get access to their technology and to use this mineral as part of his research. The men I've targetted thus far, even Santos, were all working under a mercenary group employed by Luthor for his dirty work. One way or another, he's going to try and get the rock into the country, and I'm going to steal it from him."

"To put it somewhere safe?" Alfred asked, taking a few steps forward. "To destroy it?"

Bruce didn't flinch verbally or physically. "No,"

Alfred took another step closer, shaking his head as he put the pieces together. "You're going to go to war with him?"

"That son of a bitch brought the war to us a year ago," The rage returned, seeping back into Bruce's voice. "Jesus Alfred! Count the dead! Thousands of people are gone!"

His roar echoed through the cave. "What's next? Billions? He has the power to wipe out the entire human race and if there's even a one percent chance he's our enemy then we have to take it as an absolute certainty," His whole body shook as the words escaped his lips. "And we have to destroy him."

"But he is not our enemy!" Alfred emphasized every word in a desperate attempt to deter Bruce. It didn't work.

"Not today," Bruce reluctantly admitted. "Today and tomorrow he might act like he's our ally, that he's a good guy out to save us all. But we know better, don't we Alfred?"

A grim smirk formed on Bruce's face. "20 years Alfred," He stated as if it were the most depressing fact in the world. "20 years in this goddamn city have taught me what promises are worth. How many so-called good guys are left in Gotham now? How many stayed that way."

Alfred stared at him with an unreadable expression, one not even Bruce could decipher to see what the man was thinking at that moment. With a sigh, he broke eye contact with Bruce and slumped his shoulders.

"Clearly sir," He took a few steps back and looked at Bruce with nothing but disappointment all over his person. "If this is the path you've chosen to walk down, there are truly no more good men left."

Feeling as if he was slapped in the face, Bruce did nor said anything to stop Alfred from leaving. He knew Alfred couldn't stop him, not really. If he revealed his identity to anyone, he would endanger Barbara and Dick by extension.

No, he was planning on doing something far worse: abandon him. At the moment when he could've used Alfred's support for the most important mission in human history, he'd chosen to walk away from him.

Once again, that sharp pang of guilt crept into the surface, making Bruce feel weak and insignificant. But as he did before, Bruce forced it back, beating back his own disappointment and anger in Alfred to let his echo fall into the dark pit of his psyche where it couldn't disturb him.

He knew Alfred wouldn't support this mission, he wouldn't have kept it a secret this long if he did. But still, he allowed himself a small glimmer of hope that he could make Alfred see reason. He felt like an idiot.

Now more than ever, he wished he had some booze in the cave. God knew he needed some to speed up the guilt blocking process.

 _Goddamn you, Alfred._

* * *

 **And so the great Bruce & Alred conversation has come and past! A bit sooner than in the film but I don't think you guys will mind. Don't worry, Alfred will make one more effort later on to talk some sense into Bruce, with a flashback exclusive to this story. My second completely original bit to add to this tale. **


	15. Babes in the Woods

She couldn't quite decide which she found more interesting with regards to mankind after all these years: their stark differences or permanent constants? For all their technological advancements outside the walls of Gotham's Antiques Museum, their shiny cars, mobile telephones, endless reserves of electricity coursing through every facet of the city, the overall feel of what transpired inside was the same one from a lifetime ago.

Here where the rich gathered to socialize with others of equal standing, it was startling how much of it was the spitting image of the past. The same group of older men and women clothed in expensive dresses and suits with watches and jewelry to complement them wearing the same demeanors of sometimes genuine but more often false modesty or friendship to others of similar station.

The way they walked, spoke and held themselves with a grace practiced and refined over an entire lifetime was unchanged, even under the scrutiny of someone with Diana's unique perspective. How they always talked much of matters which bore little importance to the outside world, saying a great and nothing much simultaneously.

As she stood at the periphery of their gathering, observing them and biding her time until the arrival of the person she was really here for, Diana wondered if they were aware of the irony surrounding them? How they, much like the assorted relics of humanities Greco-Roman past, could easily pass for relics of the past in their own right?

"Excuse me, Miss Prince?"

She turned towards the kindly voice to her left belonging to the curator of the museum standing there, ever so slightly jittering in place like a child eager to show off something he finds endlessly fascinating. A kind of enthusiasm Diana found endlessly endearing in people who, like her, spend their days finding and preserving items of antiquity.

"I'm sorry for intruding but I noticed that you were free and I wanted to-"

Diana smiled warmly at the man to try and put him at ease. "It's no trouble at all, I would love to see this mysterious prize you've acquired."

He appreciated the gesture given his broadening smile and with the same, almost palpable grace, he guided Diana in-between the dozens of smaller groups conversing with one another and the waiters constantly moving about to serve them.

"Now some scholars insist that it didn't happen," He spoke just above a whisper, as though someone in the shadows was listening and waiting to snatch his recent addition right from under him. There was indeed such a man present, but Diana knew full well what he truly desired.

She could practically feel his eyes on her from across the room, no doubt waiting for the curator to leave so they may converse in relative privacy.

"But I believe it's perfectly in action with a legendary king who was also a psychopathic killer," She dropped her untouched glass of champagne off at a waiter. "It's the sword of Alexander! The blade that cut the Gordian Knot."

The briefly muted enthusiasm returned with a vengeance as the curator stood there, hand outstretched towards the display containing the blade in question. It was old, that much was obvious given the wear and tear present on every inch of it. Though the handle appeared to remain in decent shape, the blade itself was gray and cracked from the passage of time and no doubt under stress from the elements.

Even under an expert examination, Diana could see why the sword would pass off as the genuine article with its shape, size and even the damage appropriate to its purported time period. But once again, her unique perspective gave her certain insights most in her chosen profession simply lacked, and thanks to it she knew this was not the true Sword of Alexander.

But the curator's enthusiasm was palpable, and with a wild expectation in his eyes, Diana smiled to the best of her ability and let an old, infant-like sense of wonder she hadn't genuinely felt for years overtake her.

"Incredible," She breathed in faux awe, trying to emulate her younger self. "To think I would lay eyes on such a discovery..."

"Neither did I!" He almost jumped from excitement. "In all my years of curating, I had always hoped to find something like this, something so..."

"Exceptional," She finished for him, broadening her smile. "Truly, my friend, it is a triumph."

Almost sheepishly he nodded and this time, Diana caught sight of her pursuer talking to a female waiter, enjoying a glass of champagne and imperceptibly glancing her way. When the curator excused himself, no doubt to invite someone else to enjoy the sight of his triumph, Diana pretended not to notice Bruce Wayne's footsteps or his lingering gaze until he spoke from behind her.

"It's fake," He stated with an assured arrogance, she could imagine the smirk perfectly complementing the words. "The real one was sold in 98 on the black market. These days it hangs-"

"Over the bed of the sultan of Hajar," She intentionally spoke with a tone implying an end to the conversation right then and there, enjoying how his smirk faltered ever so slightly. "Excuse me."

She barely took three steps before she felt his hand take hold of her arm. He had done with surprising speed, strength but grace, letting his message sound clearly without doing it rashly enough to draw attention to himself.

"Excuse **me** ," The arrogance of aristocratic swagger gave way to something of a low, conspiratorial growl. His head suddenly lowered, his eyes ever so slightly narrowing into the eyes of a predator, quickly examining every inch of the room in preparation for an attack. "But the other night you took something that doesn't belong to you, and I'd like it back. Stealing isn't very polite, you know?"

"Is it stealing if you steal from another thief, though?" Judging by the pause and prolonged glance sent her way, Wayne was taken aback by her casualness.

"Who are you?" He asked with a voice just a touch softer from the growl.

"Someone interested in the same man you are," Diana shrugged. "Or was, at least."

Wayne's face sped up just enough for him to halt before her, his demeanor almost entirely reverting to the playboy who flirted with the waitress earlier now that they were back in the main hall of the museum. Everything but his predatory eyes, that is.

"Was?" He half asked, half demanded.

"I believed that Mister Luthor stole something from me. A photograph of great personal importance to me."

He said nothing for a few lingering moments, clearly to find anything pointing towards lies or half truths. On this matter, Diana dealt with neither.

"I assume you didn't find it?"

"There was nothing in the data you recovered," She couldn't quite keep the frustration or disappointment out of her voice. "Nothing to imply he has what I'm looking for."

He seemed taken aback from hearing it if the momentary widening of his eyes and the clenching of his jaw was any indication. "But you had reason to suspect him specifically."

"Some weeks ago I noticed that a handful of men kept following me around, hanging just on the periphery of whatever place I spent at. Cafes, hotels, banks, museums, they thought I wasn't aware of them but they sorely underestimated me. After digging around on my own and through some connections, I was able to determine that the men tailing me were tied to Lex Luthor. That is what their bank account transfers said, anyway."

"And then they took your photograph."

She nodded. "Indeed, when I returned to my home I noticed several very small things being off. Drawers not quite closed, shoe prints where I never walk in them and a very dear possession of mine stolen from me. Needless to say, I wanted answers."

"And you didn't find them? In the personal databanks of Lex Luthor's own home?"

"It is as I told you. The information present there is fine for corporate espionage, what I assume you're after," She added offhandedly. "But nothing of worth to me personally."

And she, in spite of a lack of evidence, remained convinced that Luthor was involved somehow. Or someone inside Luthor's own company. The way his gaze kept momentarily falling on her during his speech of Zeus, Prometheus, the latter's fall from grace and the reasons behind at the Metropolis Library event. The tiny smirk which graced his lips and a mad fire springing to life than dying in his eyes every time he did so.

The same kind of look she'd seen many times before in the eyes of men and women, and they never meant anything well to those who caught their gazes. Yes, even with true evidence lacking past a tenuous connection with LexCorp, Diana knew he was somehow involved with the theft of her photograph and how that almost certainly crippled her ability to act against him directly.

Which is precisely why, when some of her contacts from throughout the years who specialized in acquiring information of all kinds, be it from people or computers, failed to find anything of worth to her search of the photograph, Diana couldn't quite believe it.

"You know," Wayne spoke in a loud whisper as he stepped closer towards her, boring his eyes into hers. "Nine out of ten men would let you get away with stealing from them," He glanced at the rest of her. "Especially in a dress like that."

She smirked at him. "But you're the tenth?"

He shrugged imperceptibly. "I'm guessing I'm the first. To see through that babe in the woods act," He leaned in closer, his lips just a few inches away from her ear. "You don't know me, but I've known quite a few women like you."

"Oh I don't know you've ever met a woman quite like me," She whispered back pushing him back ever so gently with her palm pressed against his chest. Once again, he was taken aback by the gesture and Diana quite help but enjoy his bafflement.

"You know, it's true what they say about little boys," Tugging his bow tie, Diana smiled at him. "Born with no natural inclination to share!"

Despite himself, Wayne's own lips tilted upwards and he didn't even stiffen when she pressed closer against him, her mouth mere inches from his ear. "I didn't steal your drive, I merely borrowed it, you can find it in the glove compartment of your car."

Leaning back, Diana let him examine her a few moments longer for any signs of foul play or trickery. But judging by the ease of his breathing, the relaxing of his shoulders and the softening of his eyes, she knew he would pursue her no longer. "Now, I believe I've had quite enough excitement for one night. Good night to you, Mister Wayne."

As expected, he didn't stop her as she strode past the myriad of groups still chatting away and the waiters serving them still towards the exit. As she put her coat on and stepped down the old, stony steps of Gotham's Museum, taking in the winter air and the contrast between the modern day of the outside and the old ways of the inside, Diana couldn't help but notice another constant to these parties: the backroom scheming and plotting.

One particular instance where she could not, would not step away from until she found what she needed. Not until Steve was returned to her.

* * *

 **I promised I'd be back, didn't I? Sorry I took so long but with college exams and work, things have been tighter this year then most but now that I've got some free time again, let's hope I can get a decent amount of the story done. Hopefully, all of it, by summer's end.**

 **Next up, we return to our favorite senator and set the stage of a big incident in the film!**


	16. Converging Paths

**Washington DC**

The mineral was gone.

June had made it a point to monitor it once her initial doubt concerning Luthor's designs for it became apparent, to ensure it stayed in India where it was discovered until further notice. Using a few of her brother's old army contacts, she'd managed to install a sort of unofficial security force to do just that, her other connections revealed unconfirmed and deeply buried rumors concerning Luthor playing dirty against anyone standing in his way. Nothing official, more circumstantial evidence such as conveniently placed, incriminating evidence at critical business turnovers which put Lex on the decisive edge of negotiations when his business opponents needed to divert attention to saving their reputations. But it all rang a little too true for her liking and she didn't trust him to simply let the matter lie.

The call she'd gotten from her brother as she entered Capitol Hill confirmed it, the mineral was stolen just a few hours ago, right from under the noses of several highly trained US military personnel without a peep or evidence aside from the glass container being cut open. They'd tried to track down the thief, of course, questioning personnel, interrogating the guards, but so far, there was nothing. An alien substance capable of potentially killing the most powerful man on Earth was lost to the aether, probably going to Lex Luthor even as she walked through the stone hallways of the Hill towards her office. The worst part was, she had no actual proof it was him, only a gut feeling and she was about 30 years too old to believe that would fly by itself.

She let out a long-suffering breath and hoped the day as she finally reached her office, getting a sympathetic smile from her secretary Beatrix. "Rough trip?"

"Is it that obvious?" June stopped for a second, smiling back at her.

"The hangover look minus the booze drinking is kind of giveaway," She reached into her drawer and produced a file for June. "Your ten o'clock here, nervous guy in a wheelchair named Wallace Keefe, part of the anti-Superman groups from Gotham."

 _So much for my day getting better._ June thanked Beatrix and made her way inside, removing all thoughts of Luthor and the stolen mineral from her mind as she prepared herself for what came next. Best case scenario, she would spend the next hour speaking with a reasonable individual, learning a new facet of the controversial Superman question to consider for the future, or an extremist who'll have to get dragged out by security 10 minutes into his tirade.

"Mister Keefe?" She called out the man sitting a proper distance away from her desk. Using a small stick installed into the arm of the chair, he slowly turned it around, allowing June a good look at the man. He was looking finely dressed in a black suit and white shirt underneath, nothing particularly memorable aside from them looking fairly new. The US senator felt a hint of aftershave as she approached the man to shake his hand, noticing him gulp just a tad as he took his hand in hers.

"That's me," He chuckled somewhat brokenly, revealing how nervous he was. June respectfully pretended not to notice, just as she didn't let her eyes linger on his missing legs for more than a fraction of a second. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Finch."

"Likewise," She walked behind her desk, gently lowering herself down as Keefe tilted his chair towards her. "First time here?" She decided to have a bit of small talk, to gauge the man just a bit before getting down to business.

"That's right, although, when you spend as much time at Wayne Enterprises as I have, you get used to swanky offices. Especially the ones in Metropolis."

"Yes, the city of tomorrow certainly does shine a lot," June admitted with a smile. _Until you take a better look..._

"It used to," Wallace agreed with a nod, then June noticed a shift, the nervous darting of his eyes was replaced by something more focused and more than a little angry. "But as we all know, the... Superman changed that."

"He most certainly did," She replied carefully. "And I trust you're here to talk to me about it."

"Kind of, I was hoping that you could... help me talk with him, at one of your hearings."

That wasn't an unprecedented request, June had invited several people to speak before the Superman Committee, to try and highlight their sides to Superman's various exploits, the positive and the negative ones. But she wasn't about to simply agree, she'd already noticed Keefe's anger, but she needed to know he wouldn't make a farce out of a potential meeting as others almost did.

"I'm sure you do, and quite a few people have asked the same of me. Not everyone got their chance, as you well know."

"I understand," He nodded again. "I'm sure you've had a few... nasty guys try to strong arm you into letting them onto the stand."

"You could say that."

"And I know Metropolis is probably old news compared to Nairobi. But," Keefe's demeanor shifted again, his back straightening as he grew more determined. "I was there when he showed up, I've lived with it for the past year, with my missing legs and my wife leaving me... And I think it's important for people to see that. I think it's important that we see where these people affected by Superman are a week, month or year later. Are the victims doing better? Are the guys who called him a saint doing worse. Maybe reminding him of Metropolis, of what went down, or where guys like me are nowadays, it might finally get him down here."

June could admit the merit of such a perspective, certainly, the Nairomi incident raised questions and more uproar over everything Superman had done since his initial, most controversial situations: the attack on Metropolis. The defacing of the Heroes Park statue was proof enough of that, the news couldn't stop talking about it. Not for the first time, June felt herself momentarily asking if it was all worth it. Would Superman once again ignore any attempt at a dialogue or would this new thing, finally, be the one to let them converse with one another and hopefully build a bridge between him and the US government?

Just as she'd done before, June Finch decided it was better to try and fail, rather than not try at all.

* * *

 **10 Hours Later, the Batcave**

It had taken him two full days of near constant work, deciphering algorithms, breaking through hundreds of firewalls, figuring out how and where seemingly unrelated data streams connected to one another to finally reach what he was looking for. Buried under several dozen terabytes worth of information concerning the various ins and outs of just a fraction of Lex Luthor's business empire, Bruce managed to finally knock down all of the data drives defenses to find the crown jewel of the data buried inside.

The Kryptonian mineral and everything Luthor knew about it. For the past hour, he sat silently as he peered at the notes scrolling before him like the most captivating episode of the Grey Ghost put to film. It was all there, how it could cut through the seemingly invulnerable skin of Kryptonian's, how they're senses of smell, sound and touch were heightened, where their vital organs were, revealing a biological system surprisingly similar to a regular man. Except Bruce knew it was no man in-question, but an unstoppable force of destructive power that disturbingly looked like one.

 _Well, not unstoppable now._ He smiled wryly as he kept analyzing the notes, feeling rejuvenated while doing so, as though the past 20 years in the hellhole known as Gotham City hadn't done its best to crush him in every way possible. For the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne felt like he was in control and the only thing he had to do to solidify that control was to lie in wait for the mineral arriving at Gotham Harbor in just three days time.

According to Lex' own notes inside the data drive, he always intended to get his hands on the rock, regardless of June Finch's cooperation and with an illegal army of highly professional mercenaries bringing it in with none the wiser, it didn't take a detective to guess Luthor didn't get the official go-ahead he wanted.

Bruce would make sure that wasn't the only obstacle in his plans. Leaning back in his chair, he kept scrolling downward, only half paying attention as a laugh, a genuine one, escaped his lips. It felt like a lifetime had passed since he'd done that without bitterness or phoniness behind it.

It lasted until he noticed the last scrap of data spread across several subfolders, each of which had a special symbol assigned to it. Like water dousing a fire, Bruce's well-honed instincts sent an alarm ringing through his head, a distinctly bad feeling was suddenly nesting itself in his gut. With a deliberate slowness, he clicked on the one with a strange thunderbolt on it and was rewarded with camera footage of the Central City bank interior, specifically one from a recent attempted night robbery he vaguely recalled happening there.

He watched intently as the robbers, six in total, made their way into the vault, slowly, methodically and deliberately so, he instantly recognized professionals when he saw them. Then, the camera momentarily shortened out and one of the robbers aiming his gun over the counter towards the door was grabbed by... something and knocked into the wall. Whatever its was, it made traveled by enough force to send all the nearby paper to scatter into the air like a gust of wind had blown into the room.

Then it kept happening, over and over again, until all the robbers were positioned neatly in the middle of the bank, their guns tossed aside and their bodies pressed against one another as they were tied by a bent piece of metal. For an instant, he thought it was Superman, but as he went back to the start of the footage, letting it play at the half, then tenth then a hundredth of its speed, he finally saw the blue lightning... and the man in red from where it came from.

He knew Superman's abilities well enough to understand that shooting lightning wasn't one of them. Forcing back the gnawing in his gut, Bruce searched through the other folders as quickly as possible. The next one with a shaped A revealed underwater footage from an unmanned drone in the Tonga Trench, investigating an old submarine wreck... and showed a man not only surviving pressures that would kill any person without so much as a shirt on, but blasting through the ocean floor like a missile fired out of a silo.

The one after that left him visibly sick, it was a man in a STAR lab, about ten years older then Bruce experimenting with... what used to be a person, the body, he noticed, couldn't be much younger than Dick or Barbara and there was barely anything left of him on the operating table beside his head, half his torso, and one arm. When the boy screamed as something distinctly alien shot lightning at him, Bruce immediately shut it off and practically jumped away from the computer.

He stood there, panting and finally feeling a rush of sweating covering him from head to toe, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might've been infected with Crane's Fear Toxin again. Suddenly, his eyes felt heavy and he had braced himself onto the chair to keep his shaking legs from failing him. He tried to breathe, in and out, as he practiced so many years ago, in simpler times, but as he reluctantly looked back to the data, he saw there was one more file left to open, one with a W.

Steeling himself as best he could, Bruce reached back to the mouse and clicked on it. There was no footage this time, just a picture. Of Belgium, from 1918, with Diana Prince standing right in the middle of it, dressed in armor from something out of an old, Golden Age Hollywood movie and surrounded by a motley crew of what he assumed were mercenaries of some sort. While she, even behind the getup, looked exactly the same as when he saw her a few days ago. She hadn't aged a day in almost 100 years.

He silently stood there, staring at the photograph, his mind surprisingly numb after the initial shock had worn off and Bruce knew exactly why: there was no mess to untangle or some grand mystery to piece together, it was obvious, Superman wasn't the only one of them out there. That was when a fear more horrible then he ever thought possible almost sent him to his knees.

 _It's just like with the Joker,_ Bruce thought. _One freak shows up, and more of them follow, and this time they've got the power to destroy the world..._

He recalled the early days when Joker had made himself known to all, how he was instantly compared to Batman as a full-blown criminal version of himself. Many were already asking the question if he was just an isolated incident or just the first of something worse. Bruce, stupidly, at the time thought the former but as he came to realize over his long, fruitless career how dead wrong he was.

Now? History was repeating itself to an even more horrible extent. He would not, however, make the same mistakes with these freaks as the last ones. Pushing himself back to his full height, Batman vowed to fight even more fiercely against this new threat to whatever end was in store for him. Either they'd die or he would, either way, he couldn't lose.


	17. Kansas Blues

**Kansas, Kent Farm**

"You sure you don't need my help?"

"I've been cooking for two for months now, Ma, so just sit back and relax."

"Alright," She sighed behind him, leaning back into the old chair and making it creek almost as much as her backbones. This was the fifth time she tried to get into the kitchen and help him out and once again, Clark reminded her that wasn't necessary. He wanted her to rest as she'd spent the better part of the whole afternoon and well into the evening working at Ben Hubbard's dinner.

Old Ben as they affectionally called him was their neighbor for a long time, always smiling and talking to them whenever they crossed paths. He even let Clark and Lana use his hay to build forts and play around all over the place, just as long as they didn't break anything. Ben never had kids of his own, and from a very early age, Clark realized letting his neighbors play around was the closest he'd get to have any around, even for a short while.

Eventually, Ben's nickname became a little more literal, he'd actually gotten old in the last few years and with the farming business hitting a bit of a rut all over the country, he decided to sell the old place and start a small dinner right in the heart of Smallville. Ma couldn't keep up with the place either anymore, it would've been difficult even with Clark's around but by herself, it wasn't feasible, so, she and Ben worked out a deal, letting her work in the dinner for good pay even though she should've been enjoying her retirement instead.

Even as dishes clanked together alongside the shuffling through drawers for spoons and forks, Clark could distinctly hear the weariness in his mother's breath, the somewhat off heartbeats pounding in her chest and her tired bones cracking around her neck.

"How're things at the dinner? You see Old Ben much?"

"Here and there," His mother replied with a sigh. "He used to be around more often but I've heard gossip that he's thinkin' about opening another joint."

"Who knew Ben was secretly a businessman," Clark put the plates down along with the cutlery and immediately headed back into the kitchen when the oven bell rang.

"Yeah, next thing you know he'll marry someone young enough to pass for his grandkid and start having little Ben's run around."

The idea of a 65-year-old man trying to keep up with kids running circles around him got a good laugh out of him as he gently reached into the oven with a pair of worn out old mitts. When he took it out, Clark stopped for a second and took in the smell of it and couldn't help but grin. Just from the smell, he could intensely feel the milk, chopped onion, ground beef and everything else inside the meatloaf. Just taking in the scent of a fresh meal like this, never mind the incredible taste afterward, was reason enough for him to keep eating despite the fact he didn't really need to, it was just too much of a thrill to abandon the habit.

His mom had a similar reaction when he put the dinner down, stopping for a second to just take it all in. "Mmm, that smells good."

"I learned from the best."

"Damn right you did."

That was more or less how their meal went, mother and son exchanging a little banter about each other's lives, Martha telling him about Smallville of all places potentially turning into a tourist trap while Clark told her some assignments he'd done but made it a point not to bring up Superman or Batman. Not yet, anyway, it was a long time since the two of them could just sit down and talk without a care in the world and Clark wanted to make it last for a while. His mother, very pointedly, turned the conversation away from more serious subjects when it looked like they might broach them as well. It wasn't until dinner was long finished and the two of them switched to sitting on the porch that Clark decided he'd get down to the other reason he decided to visit.

"Senator Finch invited Superman to Washington tomorrow," Clark said before drinking a little beer, hoping he sounded less nervous then he felt.

"I know, the whole dinner stopped dead when she and that Keefe man showed up," She replied, looking at the clear night sky hanging over them. "You thinking about accepting this time?"

"Maybe," Clark finished off the beer. "Lois had mixed feelings about it. She doesn't want me to get tangled up in politics and agendas, for the government to get its hands into me which, isn't entirely impossible, general Swanwick certainly didn't stop trying to track me until he'd lost more than a few drones."

"But?"

He sighed. "I recently talked to the Commissioner of Gotham City's police department, Jim Gordon, you probably heard about him from all those Batman stories a ways back. Think about it, an official state-approved police officer working publically and proudly with a vigilante to help the city in mutual trust and cooperation."

His mother didn't immediately respond, with a deliberate slowness she sat next to her boy and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"And you'd like to have that too?"

"Well, yeah," Clark admitted, feeling oddly silly about it. "I mean, I'm not stupid, I know politics is a dirty game but this woman, this June Finch, ever since the Superman Committee started, she hasn't sung my praises or called for my head. She's had genuine discussions about who Superman is and what he means for the world. Maybe she's my Jim Gordon, someone I can count on from the inside to make it easier."

"How'd Lois take that explanation?"

"She told me she understood where I was coming from and she'd support me either way, but," He smiled. "She was gonna stay cautiously pessimistic if I went through with it. For both our sakes."

"That makes two of us," When Clark looked at her, she smiled at him. "What? I'm your mom, I was worrying about everything you do way before your girlfriend ever did."

Clark couldn't deny that, besides his father, no one knew him quite as well as his mom did. It was her voice, after all, that helped him focus his powers during the early days when they first manifested. The same principle got him soaring across the sky too.

"I know every mom worth a hay says this, but I've always had your back son and I always will. If you want to stay independent, go ahead, but if you think you could use a friend as Superman besides me and Lois, I'll support that too," Her eyes took a mischievous glint. "And if that Finch woman messes with you, tell her to go to hell or else she can come down her from her fancy office and try that on me."

He laughed at the thought of her facing down the entire US government, thinking she was probably tough enough to pull it off too. All jokes aside, it was good to know the most important people in his life we're ready to help him any which direction he wanted to go. He always knew they would deep down, but with so much uncertainty still left all around him, it was nice to hear the rocks in his life weren't flinching an inch.

"Thanks, Ma," He breathed out a sigh of relief at getting this done, at least. "That's one problem sorted out I guess."

"I'm guessing the other one has to do with Batman?"

Clark wasn't too surprised by her figuring that particular issue out, he wouldn't take to the infamous Batman's police partner if it didn't have anything to do with the recent reports of brutality concerning Gotham's old vigilante.

"It does and I'm not sure what to do about it," He got back on his feet and walked a bit on the front yard. "If he was just some murderer in a costume, it would be so much simpler. But... he is... or was Gotham's hero, Ma. One of the only people who fought for that place even when things were just getting worse and worse there and he didn't do with superpowers either."

"He just a guy?" His mother asked in genuine surprise. "I always figured he might've been like you, specially after your powers started showing up at home."

"We're not alike there, no. But in a lot of other ways? Yeah, we are. We both use secret identities, we both operate outside the law to deal with things regular people can't-"

"But you're not the one painting targets on people's backs in prison."

"Exactly, he's taken things too far now, not only is he more brutal now but he's not even cooperating with Jim Gordon. They haven't spoken at all since he's come back and if it gets worse,..." Clark trailed off, once again feeling the pressure of the world on his shoulders. "I'll have to bring him in, expose who he is and potentially cause even more problems for a lot of people. That's why... I'm hoping to talk to him, help him change his mind."

"Do you think you can?"

"I'd like to think so. I've done some more research into who he is and why he does it, that's why I want to give him a chance. He's had a hard life, Ma, the kind that would break someone completely. But he seemed to stay the course, trying to help somehow even when he retired five years ago."

"What does Gordon think?" His other asked as he wrapped her jacket closely around her, joining her son on the porch.

"He said Batman helped him out during a bad time in his life, that he didn't give up on him then and didn't want to... Not yet, at least."

"I'm getting the feeling there's another side to this story you haven't told me yet."

"You're... not wrong about that," Clark admitted reluctantly as he remembered the other conversation he had, the one that brought him to Gordon in the first place. "I met with the wife of Carlos Santos. She said that putting him in prison wouldn't work, that he'd just break out just like all the other... freaks. That he deserves to die, instead."

"Something her husband's victims might say about Carlos."

"And if the law decided he should answer for his crimes that way, then I would accept it. But it wasn't, Batman knew the brand would get the attention it did and he made Carlos a target. That's why I feel like... I'm gonna lose no matter what."

That was an understatement, even besides what he'd told his mother, there was another factor in play that made Batman's potential arrest that much more complicated. Though he had no only circumstantial evidence, for now, Clark strongly suspected that Gotham's vigilante was also it's most eligible bachelor, Bruce Wayne. He'd started thinking about that when he spied in on Wayne and someone else blatantly stealing data from Lex Luthor and decided to dig into the man's background.

What Clark discovered was one tragedy after the other. Wayne witnessed his family get gunned down right in front of him, the killer never brought to justice. That alone made him more sympathetic, and more interesting to investigate.

Wayne left Gotham for a few years shortly after this, coming back as a grown man with promises to renew Gotham alongside the former District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Until Dent's face was destroyed during a courthouse hearing for Sal Maroni and the man went insane, murdering Maroni's rival, Carmine Falcone in his own home.

Wayne didn't seem deterred, from what Clark could glean out of old news posts and the like, the man seemed to shrug it all off and continue the playboy act. One Clark knew was was fake just from their one encounter, he saw something much darker during that conversation, something old, tired and bitter. Finding out about Wayne's multiple, vast financial resources further increased the possibility of him being Batman outside crime marking his life as profoundly as it did. Batman was shown driving and using vehicles that could best be described as sports tanks, alongside an actual one during a vicious, city-wide rampage of a peculiar cult just a few months before his retirement.

A retirement caused by the Joker who apparently kidnapped Batman's partner, Robin and caused the man to tear the city apart in a search. When the Joker turned up at the steps of the GCPD with most of his teeth viciously beaten out, everyone knew who did it, and until very recently, hadn't seen or heard from him since. Around the same time, Wayne himself became somewhat more of a recluse, not even bothering to rebuild his house after a drunken accident left it a burnt out husk on the outskirts of Gotham.

Then Metropolis happened where one of his companies oldest living associates, Lucius Fox died and Wayne promptly fell even more off the radar. Only appearing around the same time as Batman.

Just for feeling sympathetic to the man and his many woes, one of which Clark personally felt responsible for, made it that much harder to feel entirely angry about him as he did during his initial investigation. To say nothing of the fact numerous charities still fighting for Gotham could potential go down under if he was brought in was another matter to consider, alongside the fact Wayne had a ward, Dick Grayson living in Bludhaven with his fiance, the daughter of Jim Gordon, Barbara. Another person whose life could get dramatically upturned for something they may never have known or been a part of.

And yet... Carlos Santos was still branded and murder and more could follow suit. Potentially getting executed personally by Batman himself if he escalated his renewed war on crime even further. Where would Batman draw the line then? Who could possibly be safe if he took things to higher extremes? Wasn't the plight of his wife and son something that demanded a resolution too? Did Wayne's and by extension, Batman's issues matter more than hers?

Clark sighed, feeling very, very tired. His mother just laughed and rubbed her hand against his back. "I'm starting to get why dad never left Kansas much, it must've been a lot simpler for him here then... out there."

"My boy," She kissed the side of his head. "Trust me, things get complicated no matter where you are. Your dad just chose farming complicated over all the other ones. It's the one he understood best."

He was about to ask more when his enhanced hearing caught something he'd made a point to keep an ear out for, along with Lois. Thousands of miles away, where the river rushed against old stones, Clark could hear the screeching of car tires against concrete, shouts of fear and panic, guns and even rockets firing off.

And all of it, from what he could hear, had to do with Batman.

* * *

 **Next time, the "Worlds Finest" finally, at long last meet! After the Batmobile chase, of course.**


	18. The Worlds Finest'

**Gotham Port**

He observed them as one might a group of termites. In the dim lights of broken and faint lamps, amidst their parked cars and trucks, they scuttled about, thinking themselves safe, protected from harm, and why not? All twenty of them were armed, their vehicles hiding military grade weaponry invisible to anyone lacking special sonar, night vision. Crates piled all around provided more than enough cover to protect them from anywhere but the sky.

It was nothing he or the Batmobile couldn't cut a bloody swath through, and the temptation was strong. It would take no effort for the car to crash through their defenses, keep them occupied while he picked them off and escaped with the rock. A tactical sort of chaos that held a certain appeal, not nearly enough as the alternative did.

The one where he let them get away, make them believe they stood a chance of getting out of this place, his city then crushing them got a rare smile out of him. It'd been too long since he'd taken the car out for a proper spin, and he had a few new toys worth testing out.

So he let them tell their crude jokes, talk about what they'd do with the money from this job, and all the other things their kind did while they all waited together. The White Portuguese laid docked nearby with a crew of Chinese smuggles speaking to Knyazev. From the derelict operating crane situated above the meeting place, Batman's eyes locked onto the contents gingerly lifted off the boat to the docks via forklift.

With deliberate ease, the forklift drove past the guards to a white, sixteen-wheeler truck. When they lifted the container inside, Batman stood up and took aim.

A sudden foul taste filled his mouth at using something so close to an actual rifle. He ignored it and trained its sight on the truck's side indentations. When he pulled the trigger, no bullet came out, instead, a miniature tracking device. Just in-case they somehow managed to get away.

When Knyazev and the more men sealed the truck shut, the relaxed atmosphere changed into a mad rush for their cars. Two to three men per car, another five for a decoy truck sprang to life, the sounds of their shouts, scrapping boots and revving engines replacing banter and jokes.

Collapsing the rifle and hooking it to his hip, Batman glided across the night sky, far from where any prying eyes or lights could spot him. He ran quickly but quietly over the rooftop of an adjacent warehouse once belonging to the Nicholson Terminal & Dock Company, carefully listening to the engines blaring behind him, they were starting to leave.

Jumping down through a hole in the roof, he glided himself down to the Batmobile parked inside where it's black steel frame perfectly blended into the shadows. He climbed inside just as the truck drove past the shutters where once honest men of international commerce once brought their wares inside. Now where humanities fate would get decided.

He let the truck go, then the first three cars escorting it. When the fourth came, the Batmobile roared to meet it. It's bright headlights cut through the darkness and from the shouts of the crooks just two dozen feet away achieved the desired effect. Before it even passed the curtains, Batman heard them curse, bark orders and fire on it. He responded by turning left and letting the Batmobile's side ram into theirs.

Car number four spun wildly in place, the crooks inside satisfying shouting in fear and pain as they could do nothing to stop their ride from flailing in circles. The third car, now the last in the line, took notice of him and the back drivers opened fire too.

Stomping the peddle, Batman went after them but not before grabbing a little something. With a simple side panel button press, he fired a grappling hook situated at the back of the car into a dumpster.

Just as they entered a derelict old construction site, Batman let the dumpster go and let it fly in the air, landing right on top of the third escort car. The front of it where the engine laid instantly collapsed under the weight.

The second to last of the guard cars suddenly collapsed the back portion, revealing one of Luthor's toys inside, a minigun. Its gunner didn't waste any time in opening fire on the Batmobile, despite the fact the rounds couldn't even dent it. Smirking at the man firing on him, he prepared to speed up and force them off the road when suddenly the minigunner fired a missile.

Grinding his teeth, Batman took a sharp turn left and only narrowly succeeded in dodging the projectile. Unfortunately, the minigun had plenty more and began rapid firing them his way, forcing him to slow down or be blown straight to hell. The worst part was the fact the truck managed to turn and leave his line of sight.

With a scowl capable of breaking men's resolve, Batman grabbed a newly installed aiming stick inside the cockpit and trained it at the car right in front of him. It gave him control over a pair of twin .50 caliber machine guns built at the forefront of the Batmobile, each one capable of slicing through lightly armored hulls. Something to pressure Superman when they ran into one another.

When his onboard computer confirmed a 100% lock, Batman prepared to press down and open fire, what did it matter if they died? There were more like them every day, it wouldn't matter, not with the fate of the world on the line.

So why then did his stomach turn and his thumb refuse the damned button?

Another glance at the monitor mid rocket dodge revealed the growing distance between himself and the truck. One he had to close fast. With a snarl, he aimed away from the gunner and instead fired on tires. Just as the first car, it flailed wildly in place, spinning around and round and out of his way.

Unfortunately, the distance between the Batmobile and truck was only getting worse, meaning he needed to rectify that fast. His thumb didn't object to opening fire on a nearby wall to ram through, leading him into another warehouse. By the time he blasted out the other side, the truck and the final escort were back in his crosshairs.

Knyazev, who stood on the trucks interior edge, javelin launcher ready to fire, the final escort was already unloading its payload of minigun missiles. Once again forced to back off, this time Batman had enough time to activate his anti-ballistic defense system, a series of flares fired into the sky.

The fired javelin went right at them, momentarily transforming the whole world into a fiery inferno before Batman's very eyes. Taking hold of the aiming stick, he shot out the last escorts tires as well and promptly smacked it to the side, leaving it to spin helplessly in place.

Unfortunately, this gunner was far more persistent and kept on firing like a psychopath in all directions. One missile hit just as Batman tried to shoot out the sixteen wheelers tires.

Fighting for control, Batman snarled as his car crashed into a nearby parked boat, collapsing it all around him. Warning lights showed decent structural damage to the Batmobile, most alarming of which was a faulty frontal tire hurt in the blast. For what felt like an eternity as the truck went further and further away, he stomped on the peddle but the damn car refused to budge.

Each collision of his booth with the metal was strong enough to ruin a man's ribs, each one accompanied by a snarl. Cursing himself, Luthor, Superman, Alfred and everyone he could think of, he forced the damned car to do as he wanted.

Jerking awkwardly, it forced through the collapsed boat and was back on the road.

The truck put a sizable distance between them and the jerky motions of the damaged Batmobile weren't helping. Batman persevered, gaining back much of his lost speed in spite of the handicap. He almost fooled himself into believing the distractions were through. That's when he noticed a wounded goon lying on the floor 500 meters away.

He instantly recognized him as one of Knyazev's guards inside the truck, probably wounded by a stray round he fired when the rocket hit. For some reason, the thought of killing him brought back that sick feeling in the pit of Batman's stomach.

That's when the rage from earlier came back, not just at how he kept going easy on them but how this was just another roadblock. With the way the Batmobile was handling, he didn't trust it stay the course if he suddenly jerked it to the side, he barely made it start the last time.

No, no he couldn't slow down, the rock was getting away and humanities best chance along with it.

As he drove on, fully intent on running the man over, his stomach turned again, fueling his rage but not enough to overcome the nauseating feeling. Something close to a voice started echoing in the back of his mind, at once sounding like Dick, Alfred, Harvey Dent, then finally his father and his mother. All of them telling him to stop.

His snarling voice joined with theirs into a chorus of discord, a cacophony of disgusting, pleading, rage and so much more spilling over from 30 years of build up.

In this haze, his body moved without his thinking, forcing the car to turn away from the screaming man. Then there was a sudden, chilling clarity born from a simple fact: the man would die. There was too little distance and too much built up speed to possibly avoid him in time.

Just as he readied himself to feel the Batmobile bump and crunch against someone, a sound like the sky itself cracking in-half went off somewhere overhead. A wind followed it, followed by a red and blue blur of motion right in front of Batman's very eyes. Instead of crushing the man, there was nothing.

Breathing as though someone broke his ribs, Batman frantically glanced around until his eyes settled on the cause of it. There he was, hovering in the air, carrying the wounded crook over his shoulder. The man was sobbing into the alien's chest as the two landed just a few feet away from the Batmobile.

Batman didn't know what he hated more the fact his only weapon against the alien had just gotten away or how he felt gratitude for his interference.

* * *

"T-thank you, thank you!" The man frantically cried as Clark set him down gently, focusing on bleeding seeping out of a faint shoulder wound. From a quick look, it thankfully wasn't life-threatening. Then again, that heart attack ready to happen might be.

"Take a deep breath, you're safe now, relax."

"Sure, sure," The crook nodded his head up and down almost comically, several deep breaths later his heart rate dropped to normal levels. What Clark also heard was the shifting gears of a thousand metal parts nearby, clicks and clacks numbering in the hundreds crescendoing in a blast of air.

Batman's car split open, giving Clark a glimpse of the man himself before he got launched into the air. His cape unfurled with an almost sickening whipping noise as he glided overhead. Clark knew it was now or never, to confront the Batman and make him see reason.

"Stay here, don't move until the authorities show up and keep the pressure on that wound."

"Whatever you want Supes,..." Flying about three stories into the sky, he watched Batman's glide and only continued pursuing when he landed on top of another, lead-lined building which infested Gotham.

Clark landed in his path and was about to speak when Batman simply ran past him. He tried to stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder only for him to smack it aside. He was lucky Clark went with it, the strike as is already broke the metal plates inside the gloves knuckles.

 _Guess I'll try another approach._ "Bruce!"

That seemed to stop him if only for an instant, but if he was surprised by the exposure of his identity, nothing from his breathing to his heart rate showed it.

"I've got nothing to say to you."

He tried to walk away again. "But I do, and so does Commissioner Gordon."

This time, Clark heard an almost imperceptible shift in his heart rate how it slumped then spiked and finally evened itself out, all within the span of five seconds. With deliberate slowness, he turned around, sending the most hateful scowl he'd ever seen Clark's way, even more so than Zod's.

"What does Gordon have to do with this?" His filtered voice, laced with suspicion, sounded like granite scrapping against steel.

"I spoke with the Commissioner about what you've been doing, branding people, attacking them in their homes in front of their families. We agreed that you've got to stop before someone besides Carlos Santos dies. "

"Santos was worthless, human trafficking gutter slime. If he wanted to live, he should've stopped. Now the rest of them will think twice before breaking the law in my city."

"I don't believe the man who pulled Gordon from the brink would condone murder, or that Gordon would respect a cruel man enough to speak up for him."

"Keep Gordon out of this," He took a step forward, his scowl somehow deepening. "You want to come after me? Do it, leave my allies out of it."

"I'm not trying to come after you," Clark raised his hands in a placating gesture. "What I'm trying to do is stop people from being pointlessly killed. Given what you've done for this city before, how you fought for it when nobody else would, I'd think you would want the same."

"Pain is the only thing that keeps this place in-line, if I have to escalate it to keep these animals down, that's my business. Not of some alien freak pretending he cares."

Clark could detect from the same imperceptible heart beatings that somewhere in there, Batman was lying about thinking he was right. It would give him some hope of reaching an understanding if the absolute certainty behind his apparent dislike of him didn't disturb the Kansas farmboy. There was no masked doubt when he threw that last accusation.

"You stand there," He practically spat, circling Clark like a vulture. "Going around the planet, fooling people with your act, acting like you give a damn about us humans and they buy it, not all but enough of them."

He stopped back to stare Clark down. "But I know what you are, an alien menace who'll burn this whole world of ours down. Another costumed freak dressed like a clown, except the old ones, had enough decency, to be honest about what they wanted. You? Your hero act makes me sick, almost as much as all the idiots who believe it."

Clark would've laughed if he wasn't certain how disturbingly honest Batman was. But he understood why, knowing where Wayne was when Zod attacked and what he lost in it. Being helpless amidst that mess must've been horrible. It must've felt like reliving the Crime Alley shooting all over again.

"I know why you must feel that way," Clark's tone softened. "You were there, watching me fight Zod, and I... understand why you're angry at me. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I could've stopped it sooner, that I could've somehow known he was coming.

"But I'm trying to make up for all that, for the mistakes I made. Gordon told me a man's mistakes shouldn't have to define him, that we can all get another chance to do better. The kind he got from you during the Black Mask incident, and the kind he and I both want to give you. So please," Clark extended a hand out to Batman who simply stared at him with an indecipherable expression. "Work with us, let's stop all of this before it goes unnecessarily further."

Batman... Bruce didn't say anything, his eyes boring into Clark as if he couldn't believe what was happening in front of him but didn't want to show it. Then he smirked which turned into a loud, uncomfortable laugh. It was deep, humorless the kind only a deep baritone could produce and against all logic, had an echo-like effect. The voice mangling device he used only made it worse.

It didn't help Clark could see the man beneath the mask, and the almost deranged way his features contorted during it. Then, the laugh stopped faster than it came, leaving the same scowling, angry man standing there.

"You're good, possibly an even finer actor than myself. It's no wonder so many gullible idiots believe you."

Clark pulled his hand back, his super hearing picking up the sounds of police sirens getting closer and closer. Loathe as he was to accept it, Batman's body didn't lie, he meant every word of it.

"But you got me to laugh so I'll give you a warning: get off my planet. Find all the rest of the freaks and leave, don't ever come back. Because if you stay, I'm going to make you regret it."

"And if you keep going like this," Clark's voice took a harder edge this time, his sympathy for Batman him slipping to the wayside. "I'm going to bring you in, and Gordon won't hesitate to lock you away. You can count on that."

Instead of being intimidated, he smirked ferally as if relishing the challenge. "Then may the best 'man' win."

Suddenly, a loud whizzing noise came from overhead, one belonging to a jet approaching from the grey clouds overhead and barreling right towards the building. Clark half expected it to open fire, instead, Batman fired a grappling line of some sort and propelled himself towards the plane. The second he reached it, he along with his jet vanished back into the sky, his damaged car long since gone during their conversation.

Letting out a deep suffering breath, Clark readied himself to question the men Batman had gone after. Hopefully, it wasn't as fruitless of a conversation as the one he'd already failed at.

* * *

 **Elsewhere**

"Now do you believe the severity of the situation?"

"I knew Bruce was in a rough place these past few years after what happened to Jason, but I figured leaving Gotham for a while would help. Instead,..."

"A belief I shared as well, but as we've both heard, Master Bruce is in a dark place, darker than perhaps any thus far. We cannot allow this to continue, for his sake and so many others."

"You're right Alfred," She sighed. "I'll tell Dick as soon as he gets home, without him, we don't have a prayer of pulling this off."

"Please do, Miss Gordon, and quickly, I fear we are all of us running out of time."

* * *

 **Thus we hit another big divergence point from the film: the Bat-Family getting involved. Since we don't have any indication of what Dick and Babs are like in the DCEU yet, expect some heavy reliance on comic and other media material for their characterization when the time comes for it.**


End file.
